Fame and War
by RuelessEntity
Summary: Upon arriving in Paris rather eventfully, Elle meets the Musketeers. She soon reveals herself to be a woman of many names and the boys are understandably both intrigued and alarmed at this woman's desire to remain so secretive. Tensions run higher still when the Musketeers realise that Elle may have something to do with the deadly plans they have been tasked with tracking down...
1. Chapter 1

**_I do not own the Musketeers or any of the recognisable characters I may use or mention in this fic. I am merely playing with them for my own amusement._**

* * *

**Chapter One: Sauveur.**

She could handle the ambiguity of the icy void around her, the thievery of the air from her lungs by the churning swells, even the blindly tumultuous rise and fall of her last few moments of life.

What she could not handle, however, was the guilt.

Maybe this was her punishment. Maybe there was a God, after all. Maybe he had watched her intently, only putting a stop to her actions at the very point she believed she might actually succeed.

The only consolation was that this would all be over in a matter of seconds.

Her torso ached with the nigh impossible task of sustaining the last precious gulp of air in her lungs and she looked around for any glimmer of hope that may be afforded her; a guiding light, a piece of rope, an errant barrel.

But there was nothing.

She clawed upwards at her best guess, but found no purchase. She turned and flailed in the opposite direction, hoping that she had been wrong in the first instance. Something made itself known to her here, though it was not a fortunate discovery. If she had to guess she would have said it was an old chest, heavy and laden with either food or personal effects. Certainly not jewels or riches; she hadn't gotten that far yet. Whatever it was, it had attacked her; landing her a blow to the back of her head, forcing the last breath from her and bidding her cease in her primal struggle for survival.

She tumbled then, limp like a discarded marionette; one more for the scores who found their eternal rest in the folds of the shroud of the Seine.

* * *

Monsieur Purcell despised the driving rain and bitter wind that came with storms of this calibre and he had been loathe to leave his hearthside and venture out into such a tempest, but the storm had been sudden and unpredicted and, as such, posed a significant threat to Purcell's small vessel. So, the fisherman had had no choice, but to brave the downpour with nought but a lantern and a length of rope to arms.

After he had secured the boat to the best of his abilities, Purcell had taken a moment to watch the swells from the safety of the river bank.

Occasionally, waves such as these would confuse the shoals of fish and see them leaping to safety, only to dash their little heads on the decks of ships or asphyxiate on the embankments until morning. It was a rare occurrence, but something that fascinated Purcell and it pleased him to wait and see if on this night some such event might present itself.

He held the lantern at an arms' length, sweeping it from side to side in increasing frustration, until the rainwater bit at his neck and hands so much so that he could no longer feel them. With a disappointed grunt Purcell turned away, picking his way up the bank. He pivoted only a moment later when he heard something break the surface with a deep _glug_. The fisherman's brow knitted together as he cast the lantern light forth and was met with the sight of a young woman, grazing the hull of his vessel.

Purcell leapt onto the unsteady craft, grappled for the boathook and proceeded to lever the dead weight out of the river.

Once the strange woman had been brought aboard, Purcell took a moment to study her; she appeared to be younger than himself and, even though her pallid complexion was probably a gift from the Seine, he felt she possessed a purity and vibrancy that had not seen in an age. Her waterlogged brunette locks clung to her high cheekbones and rounded jaw in places and there was a miniscule smear of red on her paled lips, though whether this was paint or blood, Purcell could not fathom. Her clothes were her most peculiar feature; in place of the customary dress of her gender, she wore a white cotton shirt, and dunn coloured trousers and boots. A black and burgundy, brocade waistcoat was buttoned atop the shirt and the hilt of a small silver and black stone dagger peeked out from the cuff of her right boot.

The fisherman pressed two fingers to the woman's neck and was relieved to feel the thread of a pulse there. He immediately rolled her onto her side and patted her hard on the back. After a few moments, the woman spluttered, expelling the water from her lungs and drinking in several selfish mouthfuls of air.

Purcell tilted his head a little as his rescued woman opened her eyes, panicked and unfocused. He found himself smiling at their hue; snow sky blue. Cold, crisp, delicate. Her brow twisted into confusion for only a moment before she fell back into unconsciousness.

The fisherman gathered the woman up in his arms and then stooped awkwardly for the lantern. Trepidation slowed his efforts to return to land since he did not wish to slip and surrender the woman to the thralls of the river again. He picked his way gingerly up the embankment, holding his charge close to his chest in a superfluous attempt to keep her dry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Pécheur.**

Purcell stood over his charge, head lilted to the side in silent scrutiny. He had arranged her on the bench from his table, before the hearth fire in the hope that the warmth may revive her. So far, it had only seen fit to crisp the visible edges of the shirt she wore and summon a dry, straw-like quality to the few strands of hair that it could reach.

Decisively, Purcell knelt beside his charge, arcing an arm over her stomach and taking hold of the farthest side of the bench. With the other he gripped the edge nearest to him and pushed. The result was the offensive screech of wood on flagstone and the lull of the young woman's head to finally face the flame.

Purcell took a moment to gaze upon her before he disentangled himself from the structure and was pleased to see at last, some colour returning to his rescued woman's countenance.

Taking a breath, Purcell released his grip on the bench and fumbled, instead, for the buttons of the woman's waistcoat. He had opened it almost to her naval before a sharp edge of silver pressed itself against his throat.

The pair rose to their feet in tense synchrony and Purcell was not surprised to find the woman far more graceful than he. He straightened awkwardly from his kneeling position, all the while wary of the proximate knife edge. It took him what seemed like an age to stand, but when he was completely upright, he gave an uncertain smile and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

The woman regarded him with narrowed and calculating eyes. Eyes which Purcell, if he had not known any better, could have sworn did not belong to the woman who had smiled to him on his boat. They were no longer pure and crisp, but darker in all senses of the word and held within them an astute rage.

"S'il vous plaît, Mademoiselle…" Purcell croaked, "Lower your dagger; you've nothing to fear from me."

To the fisherman's dismay, the dagger remained where it was, the woman responding only with a short downwards glance to her flayed doublet and an eyebrow raised incredulously.

"Please, I was only attempting to remove your waistcoat so that I could dry it by the fire." Purcell offered, finally lowering his hands. Silence fell around them then, the woman seemingly engaged in her thoughts.

"Where am I? And how did I come to be here?" She asked finally in a voice thick with salt water.

"You were nearly drowned in the Seine. I rescued you and brought you here...to my home." The fisherman then attempted a courteous bow, but was all the while acutely aware of the hum of silver on his chin, "Monsieur Davin Purcell, at your service."

The woman did not seem to care what her saviour's name was and instead turned her focus to a glancing survey of the room in which she found herself. It was in fairly good repair, but simply furnished; aside from a few ancient patches of red or blue, the walls were devoid of colour. They appeared a sand yellow, but this hue flickered in synchrony with the florid tendrils behind her. There was a door and a shuttered window in the wall to her left and an archway leading to a staircase in the one opposite. Other than herself, the man and the bench from which she had just risen, there was only a small square dining table, a dresser and three trunks stacked in the corner. Her gaze lingered on the trunks a moment and she noticed a drip of white lace and blue cotton from one of the unhinged corners.

"Might I have your name, Mademoiselle?" pried Purcell, causing the woman's gaze to fall upon him, once again.

She did not answer right away and instead took a breath, deliberating before finally offering a single word.

"Vivienne."

"Well, Vivienne, might I offer you a bed for the night and some dry clothes? The storm, I dare say, will not pass before morning."

Purcell was relieved to see Vivienne lower the weapon then, returning it to the cuff of her boot deftly. She heaved a resigned sigh and fixed her saviour with kindly eyes and a grateful smile.

"I would be glad of some dry clothing, monsieur, but I couldn't impose on you the night."

Purcell looked a little crestfallen at this, but nodded nevertheless, crossing to the trunks in the corner. He opened the very one that had caught Vivienne's eye before and retrieved from it a bundle of azure fabric, trimmed in ivory lace.

"This should do you for now at least."

He placed the roll into her arms and gave a nod to the staircase in the archway, "There is a bed chamber up there where you might dress and I will see if I can find a cloak. That is, if you still have your heart set upon leaving."

Vivienne was about to confirm that she did intend to leave, but by the time she had opened her mouth, Purcell had turned away from her and had busied himself with the trunks once again.

* * *

The bedchamber complimented the wanting living space below, perfectly, following suit with its bland walls and sparse furniture. There was nought but a bed, a worn but sturdy chest of drawers and a standing mirror, blemished with age in the space. This room, contrary to the flagstone floor below, had dark wood floorboards that creaked at the slightest pressure. Initially the sound grated, but after she realised why, she turned her thoughts to reminiscence. She remembered the ship, the crew, the captain. Before the disappearance and before the decision that may, if she had not been so lucky as to be rescued, have claimed her life.

She donned the dress with a degree of chagrin, lacing up the bodice to the best of her ability. It was slightly loose around her bust, but it would do until she could source something else, or until her usual attire was dry. For lack of other options, Vivienne pulled her sodden boots back on, all at once glad to feel the familiar tingle of the dagger against her right leg. She took up a brush from the dresser top and began to work at her matted tresses by the dwindling candle light, wincing a little as she grazed the tender flesh at the back of her head. She moved to stand before the mirror, not entirely impressed with the ensemble and fought hard the urge to turn as a floorboard creaked behind her.

"I found a cloak, for you." Came Purcell's voice followed by a flurry of dark heavy cloth as he tossed the item to the bed. Vivienne said nothing, expecting the fisherman to leave. When he did not, she found herself turning, brow furrowed.

Purcell remained silent, watching as the woman before him returned the brush to its rightful place and outstretched a hand for the mantle. Almost without thinking, he too grabbed at the cloth and held it taut between them.

"Pardon my actions, Mademoiselle, but…it seems to me that you are being decidedly ungrateful."

At this statement, Vivienne released her grip on the cloth. Purcell continued with a sardonic laugh.

"I was selfless enough to pull you from the river, shelter you and dress you and you have not so much as offered a simple 'Merci'…"

Vivienne took a breath and gave a slow, thoughtful nod, "Ah, but Monsieur Purcell, what if I did not wish to be saved? Would you still expect me to be grateful then?"

Purcell fell silent at this and faltered, releasing his grasp on the cloak. Vivienne seized her chance and swept the mantle around and over herself with a flourish. She took a few steps in the direction of the doorway, pausing to afford the fisherman a polite curtsey, in a pantomime of false gratitude.

"Merci, Monsieur Purcell, for your selflessness and hospitality. I am truly grateful to you for preserving my life and I shall ever be in your debt. If our paths should cross again, ask of me what you will and I shall endeavour to repay you, but for now, good sir; Bonsoir et Adieu."

Vivienne had only just reached the top stair when she felt one hand curl around her left wrist and another upon her collarbone.

A startled yelp escaped her lips as she came face to face with the wall at such a force that it knocked the breath from her lungs. For a second, she was in the Seine's embrace again, but this time the pressure was different, this time it was tangible and this time, she could fight back.

Vivienne winced as her assailant twisted her arm and brought his face but an inch from her own. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek and in her ear as a venomous growl slithered from his lips, "How dare you mock me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Perdant.**

Contrary to her initial assumptions of the man, Vivienne found Purcell to be surprisingly strong. He secured her against the wall with his bodyweight and held her arms in a vice like grip. She tried in vain to move them - if only to push herself a little way from the wall so that she may breathe better - but they were hindered by his human shackles. Vivienne's heart sank and a tear crept from her left eye, mounting her cheekbone and making its way slowly to her jaw, passing just inches from Purcell's lips.

"Please sir..." She breathed, her voice crackling with the threat of a despairing deluge, "Forgive me…"

She tensed, listening with her body for any clues as to what would happen next. Her wrists heard the loosening of Purcell's grip, her back the whisper of his cooling absence and her cheek, the sole itch of her own tears, unwavering without his breath.

Purcell's fingers still crushed the lace at her sleeve, but seemed willing, at least, to let her move a little. The man turned her, deftly yet with an unnerving haste and Vivienne soon found her back against the chill plaster, her arms held against it in a forced gesture of surrender.

"Please forgive me." She mewed, bidding her sodden orbs find the floorboards. She watched her sorrowful tears leap and silently shatter amidst the minute ravines hewn by age and footfall.

Purcell allowed her this for a moment or two, before moving his hand from her left wrist and seizing her chin in his grasp instead. He bid her face him and drank in her tears, smiling wide and triumphant.

Then his brow furrowed; the grief-stricken expression on Vivienne's face twisted into a smile of pure malice. Her eyes narrowed in determination and, before Purcell knew what was happening, there was a blow to his side that knocked the wind from him.

He fell to the boards, bewildered and sore and only half aware of the ungrateful woman's sweeping proximity as she fled for the stairs. Gathering his wherewithal, he pursued, following at first the creaking steps of her descension, then the sound of grating iron.

_The lock! _Purcell thought and quickened pace. He reached the bottom of the staircase and cursed at the door left ajar, closing the gap between himself and the portal within a second.

The fisherman pondered a moment, but before he could reach a conclusion there came an explosion of pain at the back of his head. There was a trickle of warmth there also and, as he sank light-headed to the flagstone, he took in the sight of Vivienne. She was standing confident, a triumphant smile on her lips and the poker for the hearth in her hands.

* * *

She was disappointed to see Purcell stir so soon; she thought she had hit him hard enough to knock him out for a good few hours and yet, here he was, reviving even before she had finished binding him. At the disheartening flickering of his eyelids, Vivienne hastily stoppered his mouth with a cloth gag, the knot resting (not entirely unintentionally) upon the bloody welt at the base of his skull. When she was done she checked the remaining binds were secure and dragged Purcell's writhing weight to a corner by the hearth. He resisted, groaned and thrashed as best he could, but the sudden appearance of a familiar silver blade put a stop to his protestations. He watched as his captor lowered herself onto the bench, eyes steady and gloating.

"Since you are so concerned with manners, Monsieur Purcell, I will thank you for a most eventful evening."

The blade danced gracefully in her hands as she spoke, performing tiny pirouettes on her finger tips and somersaults over her palms. Purcell watched on, fascinated, terrified. He had greatly underestimated this woman, that much was true. Vivienne shifted her gaze from him, for moments, transfixed in silence herself, by the black stone handle. Then, quite suddenly, the blade was returned to its customary place and Vivienne stood to turn down the hearth.

When there were only dying embers to light her way, she crossed to the door, opened it and stepped through.

"Do not worry, Monsieur…" She chimed, her voice silver with innocence, "…I shall return this night and…I think, I will stay after all."

Purcell refuted this as best he could, but his veto was lost in his makeshift muzzle.

Vivienne gave a small wave, stepped out into the waning storm and locked the door behind her.

She turned her mind to business and pocketed the key, stowing it with a handful of coins and a fanciful compass (collectively known as the other items she had taken from Purcell whilst he was unconscious).

After stealing a moment to get her bearings, Vivienne disappeared into the maze of storm bitten streets that was Paris. She took a left, another, crossed a square, turned right, vaulted a stone division or two and eventually found herself at the back door to a house in a row of others much the same. She knocked and waited in the rain for a disgruntled servant woman, carrying a freshly lit lantern to answer her.

"Pardon the intrusion, but may I see your master?" She asked weaving as much sincerity around her words as she could muster. The woman frowned, held the lantern closer to behold her features, gave a shake of her head.

"Master's not in. An' even if he were, he'd not receive anyone at this hour!"

The door threatened to close then, but she flattened her palms against the sodden wood and held it steady.

"Perhaps there has been a mistake." She laughed in an attempt to put the servant at ease, "Please could you check for the master again and tell him that _Elle _is here to see him? Sil vous plait?"

The woman's ears visibly pricked at this and she gave a small nod, before pivoting and disappearing into the void of the dwelling, leaving her master's caller with no other option but to cross the threshold into the entrance hall, closing the door decisively behind her with an apprehensive breath.

She waited for what seemed like an age before she heard footsteps in the darkness.

"Elle?" Came the voice from the void.

She squinted, but could see nothing.

"It is I." She replied and cleared her throat when her voice cracked; the man's voice was different somehow and not what she once knew. Yes, it had been years since their last meeting and they were both bound to have changed with age, but still…

She had no time to question this further as she was swept up in a Herculean embrace.

She was dizzying when he released her.

"Elle! How good of you to return!"

"It is truly great to see you again, Gaspard." She replied, catching her breath between words, "How have you been?"

Just as she had asked this, the servant woman returned, bathing the small space with lantern light once again. She noticed a gauntness to the man's face that had not been before. His eyes were swollen with fatigue and, though it was not conclusive in the dim luminosity she could have sworn his complexion a shade or two fairer.

"Bah!" He waved away her question, draping an arm around her shoulders, "Never mind me, my sweet. How about you? What brings you to Paris?"

She let Gaspard lead through a doorway in the wake of the servant woman. A smile tugged at her lips.

"The storm." she answered, absent-mindedly, only checking herself when the lantern light revealed a quirked eyebrow on behalf of Gaspard.

"And Business."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Vainqueur.**

Treville looked down upon the Garrison courtyard and was glad to see that there was little that commanded his attention. A few musketeers were, it seemed, deep in the thralls of a discussion concerning their amorous activities the previous evening and a further group of three were debating (rather loudly) the correct method to use when duelling with a Red Guard, but for the most part, there was nothing that was amiss.

Treville turned his attention to the archway at the far end and the arrival of his three best soldiers with d'Artagnan (as always) in tow. The Captain allowed himself a small smile before turning and retreating back into his office. He waited a moment or two and emerged again, footsteps purposefully heavy and audible upon the decked balcony. He made a pantomime of scanning the courtyard before fixing his gaze on the newcomers, though he knew they would head for the table lain with sustenance in the form of bread, wine and (when they could procure it, of course) fruit. The four had laid an unspoken claim to the area and the other soldiers appeared not to mind since they were still allowed to take of it what they wished and seat themselves at it when the want arose.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan. My Office. Now." The Captain barked, drinking in the deliciously incredulous glances of the men in question. Treville retreated once again as soon as he took note of their rising to obey.

Athos was the first to rise and headed for the staircase, d'Artagnan followed him, but the other two lingered. Aramis seemed reluctant to leave the small plate he had gathered for himself and Porthos hesitated over a cup of wine.

The former raised an eyebrow, scanning the courtyard for the reactions of his fellow soldiers.

"Do you think they envy us or pity us?" he queried, rising slowly and breaking off a small amount of bread that could be easily consumed on his way to the office.

"If they had any sense…" replied Porthos with a short laugh and a shrug. He took a moment to press the cup to his lips and downed the contents.

No sooner had he returned the vessel to the table top than another prompt from Treville echoed around them and, even despite the multitude of their fellow musketeers, the courtyard fell silent.

The pair hastily made their way up the steps beneath the collective critical gaze of their comrades.

* * *

Treville raised an eyebrow at Aramis and Porthos as the pair finally arrived, moving to stand in line with Athos and d'Artgagnan. The young Gascon smirked sideways and Aramis, still chewing, responded with a discreet shrug of his shoulders, oblivious of (or simply ignoring) the Captain's pointed stare.

"Nice of you to join us, gentlemen." came the familiar stony voice, though it was clear Treville was loathe to linger on such a trivial reprimand. He continued swiftly, not even entertaining the opportunity for rebuttal or excuse.

"I have an assignment for you all." He began, electing to ignore the cheerful spark in the eyes of both Porthos and Aramis as they, no doubt, exchanged telepathic avowals of '_Surprise, surprise'._

Treville gave a restrained shake of his head and continued, "One which must be handled with no small amount of subtlety."

The four men seemed to straighten in unison at this, all at once focused and attentive.

"There are rumours of some volatile documents having made their way into Paris; schematics to be precise. I need you to investigate these rumours and, if they are found to be true, track down those responsible and seize the plans."

"Plans for what?" Porthos pried, his dark eyes now devoid of their jovial gleam and keeping, instead, the stoicism of duty and honour.

Treville shook his head in resignation, "I'm not sure, though the popular theory is weapons. Something new and dangerous and - if they fall into the wrong hands - devastating."

"And where did this information come from?" asked Athos, guarded as ever.

"Etienne Levesque; a musketeer and a good man."

"And where is Levesque now?" posed the young Gascon, expecting the answer to come from the Captain. Instead, it was Aramis who answered.

"I know of Levesque and his whereabouts and I would be glad to speak with him, should the need arise."

The Captain gave an approving nod, "I don't need to tell you that the greater control we have on this, the better. We were fortunate that, if they do exist, these plans have come to France and not to the shores of our enemies, but still…there are those in this country who should never see them."

The musketeers shared knowing nods and, even though the name was never uttered, they collectively summoned the image of the Cardinal to their minds' eyes.

* * *

Porthos turned his gaze skywards as he and his trio of comrades emerged from Treville's office. He found it difficult to believe that only four days ago the now azure heavens had been a tumultuous oyster grey, forecasting a storm that even the musketeers had refrained from braving. They descended the stairs and headed for the archway.

"What's the plan then?" He asked, turning his gaze to Athos.

It was no secret that Athos assumed the role of leader when it came to the ensemble and Porthos did not know whether it was the man's seniority or his calculating nature that made him so easy to follow, but he rarely steered them wrong and so he was content with the arrangement. An opinion also shared, it seemed, by Aramis and d'Artagnan. He watched as the former Comte de la Fere, halted and turned to them.

"Aramis, take d'Artagnan and go speak with Levesque. I'm not disputing that he is a good man, but it may pay to make sure. See if you can find out how he has come to know of the plans and what, if anything, the Red Guards already know about them."

Aramis nodded in agreement, sweeping an arm to pat d'Artagnan on the shoulder. The Gascon frowned and mouthed the word, _'Ow' _which only succeeded in summoning an impish grin to his assailant's lips.

Athos then shifted his gaze to the left, "Porthos, see if you can find anything out from the taverns, especially those that may attract the more unscrupulous clientele." He paused, noting the haughty expression of triumph cross his friend's features. He rolled his eyes, "You are there on musketeer business, Porthos, and that means no drinking and no gambling."

"Very well." the musketeer replied, though his self-satisfaction seemed not to wane.

"And I will speak with the guards at the city gates and docks. They should have the names of any newcomers to Paris within the last week. We'll meet back here tomorrow morning."

The small group dispersed, with Aramis and d'Artagnan taking a right out of the archway and Athos taking the left. Porthos passed Aramis and'Artagnan on his own path.

"I like that plan." He laughed.

"You would." Chided Aramis, playfully.

D'Artagnan treated the dark-skinned musketeer to a condescending smile, "But Athos said no drinking and no gambling."

"That he did, my young friend, that he did." Came the reply, the speaker looking crestfallen for a moment or two before perking up and breaking away from his comrades. He side stepped, heading for an alleyway.

"Still a good plan, though." He winked before disappearing into the passage.

"What's he so happy about?" d'Artagnan pondered aloud, listening as his counterpart gave a disbelieving sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Caché**

D'Artagnan turned with mouth agape and brow furrowed as the door was answered by a boy no older than seven years of age.

"Did we get the right place?" He asked Aramis as the scruffy blonde child stared up at them, wide-eyed.

Aramis could feel confusion etch itself into his own features and it was not until the boy half-turned and cried 'oncle' did the Musketeer finally grasp what was going on. He gave a laugh and nodded to his young companion. Aramis was about to ask the child's permission to enter when he heard footsteps approaching. He straightened and smiled widely, ready to offer greeting just as an unassuming, unshaven man rounded the doorframe and swept the two men inside. He directed them through to the kitchen area, but he lingered on the porch a moment before closing the door, his gaze shifting from one end of the street to the other, only settling a moment on the angled terrace opposite and the foremost dwelling he had become accustomed to study.

D'Artagnan felt he and Aramis had been kept waiting for far too long before the strange man finally appeared to notice the pair and, even then, he only spared a nod as he passed to the boy, crouching to reach his eye height.

"Now Jacques, what have I told you about answering the door?" he tested, his voice low and smooth, smoky and deep. The boy found the floor with his gaze, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

"Don't answer it by myself." He mumbled.

"That's right. And what else did I say to do while you're here?"

"You…um…You said I should call you 'Papa'."

"Right."

D'Artagnan felt his breath hitch in his throat as the man's expression darkened a little. He gave a searching sideways glance to Aramis who seemed not to have noticed and had, in fact, crossed to a dresser, inspecting the bottles and jars arranged there.

The boy's uncle spoke then, his voice suddenly cold, "Then why didn't you?"

A moment's silence tainted the air around them and the young Gascon opened his mouth to speak before Jacques beat him to it.

"I don't know, oncle…I forgot."

The man slowly raised an arm, fingers curling.

"Well, you know what happens every time you forget…"

"Yes, uncle…"

D'Artagnan set his brow and started forth, only to be halted by a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Aramis, treating him to a shake of the head and a frown that suggested he should know better than to assume such things. Then, as if to illustrate the musketeer's mute reprimand, the man swept the boy, squealing with delight, into the air. D'Artagnan relaxed at the sound of Jacques' laughter as his uncle tickled him and ruffled his blonde mop. After a few moments the boy squirmed free and ran to the doorway, sporting the widest grin the Gascon had ever seen on anyone, much less a child.

"Run along now and get cleaned up; your mother will be back soon and she'll have something to say about the state of you."

"Oui, Oncle." Jacques replied spritely, obediently heading for the stairs and trying in vain to smooth out his hair with his hands.

Once the boy was gone his uncle straightened and fixed his impromptu guests with a warm but crooked smile. The expression gathered the skin across his cheekbones, his green eyes becoming little more than small dark slits. The lower part of his face was mostly obscured by a beard the same ebony hue as his hair, both of which, d'Artagnan suspected, had not been properly groomed in a long while. This disregard for personal appearance seemed to follow through to his attire as well, since he had chosen a shirt that may once have been white but was now grey and stained, a pair of scuffed brown boots and trousers saturated with dust and worn at the knees. Despite this, the man seemed in good health and supported a slender, muscular frame.

Aramis stepped forward and allowed the man to draw him into a fond embrace.

"You know," the musketeer began, pulling away with a chuckle, "I'm not entirely sure this is what the Captain meant when he said 'blend in'."

"What can I say?" The man replied with a shrug, "I'm a perfectionist."

D'Artagnan gave something of an uncertain smile as both men turned their gazes to him simultaneously. He felt Aramis' gloved hand collide with his shoulder and the bruise from his earlier gesture of camaraderie ached in protest.

"D'Artagnan, I'd like to introduce Etienne Levesque, of the King's Musketeers."

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur." The Gascon offered, outstretching a hand in greeting. Levesque took and shook it fervently, before turning back to Aramis, an eyebrow arched.

"The newest prospect?" he asked, to which there was a nod in response. He turned back, "Don't fret yourself, lad; you'll be a musketeer soon enough, especially if you've Aramis and his friends for mentors." At this, he finally released the young man's hand.

Levesque heaved a sigh, deflating his smile, "But, I doubt you're here to listen to me talk idly; you've come about the plans, I'd wager."

He waited for the nod in confirmation from Aramis before leading the two men to a table and chairs pushed into the alcove opposite the doorway. Before he sat himself, Levesque plucked a bottle from the dresser and scavenged three cups. He began to divide the contents of the bottle between the vessels.

"What do you know of them?" pried d'Artagnan, gratefully receiving a beaker from his host.

Levesque waited until each man had a cup before corking the bottle neck and taking the seat opposite the young Gascon. He shook his head in resignation.

"I'm afraid, not much. I caught a few murmurs from some of the lesser upstanding residents of the street. One or two mentioned Monsieur Renaud, but that's not exactly a surprising revelation. "

Aramis gave a nod that suggested he had thought as much, but d'Artagnan could not help but feel somewhat left out.

"Monsieur Renaud?" He pressed, his gaze shifting between the two musketeers expectantly. In the end it was Aramis who answered.

"Monsieur Gaspard Renaud. Retired red guard and all round unscrupulous character." He offered, with a disgusted wrinkling of his nose.

"He'll do anything for anyone…" Levesque verified, taking over from Aramis when he paused for a sip of wine, "…so long as there's money to be made. Still keeps in contact with the Cardinal...even despite his supposed retirement."

D'Artagnan shrugged, "Not surprising; I'm sure Richelieu's coffers run deep enough to keep a man like that interested indefinitely…"

The musketeers murmured something in agreement, before allowing a silence to ensconce them.

"Has Renaud received any visitors, recently?" probed Aramis, catching sight of a furrowed brow on the young Gascon's part. One side of his mouth twitched in jest, "He occupies a house on the other side of the street, he's a dishonest and crooked former member of the Cardinal's guard and Levesque has been posted here to keep an eye on him." He stated matter-of-factly.

The man across from d'Artagnan tried, rather unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh, "Keep up, lad! You've got to have a sharp mind to be a musketeer; best start practising now!"

Aramis joined his old friend and d'Artagnan was ashamed to feel heat in his cheeks at the apparent hilarity at his expense, but he drowned his embarrassment in the cup of wine and waited patiently for the men to cease their mirth. He did not have to wait long.

"As far as visitors go, there's only been one that I would call out of the ordinary." Levesque imparted, drinking in his guests' impatient expressions.

"Oh?" Aramis Coaxed.

"Oui. A young woman. About four days ago now."

D'Artagnan scoffed, earning himself twin guises of suspicion from Aramis and Levesque. He faltered a little beneath their gaze.

"Is that entirely unusual?" The Gascon queried, his face twisting almost to match those of the other two.

Levesque gave an instructing nod, "It is for Renaud. His interests lie in money, always have and, I suspect, always will. He leaves the house only to deal with potential ventures and, when anyone unexpected knocks, they are more often than not turned away hastily."

"But this woman was allowed to enter?" Pondered the musketeer opposite, leaning back in his seat and draining the vessel in his grip.

Levesque offered a confirming nod, "Don't know what she said, but she waltzed on in there like she owned the place. The funny thing being, the rumours started the very next day."

"Did you see her leave?" came the Gascon's enquiry, suddenly eager to prove himself in the eyes of the two musketeers, "Which direction did she go?"

Levesque heaved a sigh and his shoulders sank a little, "I caught a glimpse of her whilst I was waiting on the corner over to the East. She vaulted a couple of walls, but I lost her by Monsieur Fortin's Boulangerie; by then the storm had picked up again. My best guess would be that she was headed for the riverfront, but I can't be sure."

"That's definitely something we should look into…" plotted Aramis, checking himself when a thought crossed his mind, "could you describe her at all?"

This earned him a resigned shrug in response, "She wore a dark hooded cloak over a blue dress, but that's all I could see."

The three men sat for a moment or two, silently devising their next move. In the end this was decided by a cry from Jacques for his uncle, no doubt bored and seeking distraction.

D'Artagnan and Aramis rose to leave and, after a fond farewell, found themselves on the darkening street outside, headed subconsciously for the Boulangerie the hidden musketeer had mentioned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Gemme**

Porthos had spent the better part of the afternoon venturing in and out of a selection of the city's taverns. He knew it would be quite impossible to investigate every inn in Paris in such a short amount of time, so he selected the ones nearest the river and, of those, the ones likely to attract the most immoral and disreputable of the city's populace.

But he had unearthed little and the task was fast becoming tiresome, made even worse by the fact that he had been forbidden from drinking or gambling. This in itself made blending in difficult and he had made the conscious decision in no less that 4 hostelries so far, to make a hasty retreat after receiving murderous glares from the assembled clientele (yes, he was a musketeer, but he was only one musketeer and if it were just him against a whole congregation of potential criminals? Even Porthos didn't like those odds).

True, he had decided to proceed without his blue cloak and fleur-de-lis emblazoned pauldron, but he was still acutely aware of the fact he didn't fit in.

Perhaps he would have done so, once upon a time, way back when; before Aramis had found him, beaten and half-dead in an alleyway he had no reason to be in, before he had trained and fought and strived to make something of himself and before the musketeers.

He wore no declarations of his allegiance but, it was written for all to see in his face, his gait, his voice.

Porthos stared upwards with disdain at the wooden sign swinging from its wrought iron bracket. The rectangular plaque was painted an oily green and framed in a ring of dull gold. The tavern's name was decorated in an impressive cursive of the same colour and encircled the depiction of three foxes, one small and two larger. The smaller of the trio was caught in the moment of leaping for some unseen target whilst the other two looked on, straight backed and feline. 'L'auberge de renard' it read.

Porthos headed for the entrance with a yawn, inwardly cursing Athos for taking the fun out of visiting taverns.

However, this train of thought diminished somewhat as Porthos traversed the steps into the den. Something akin to a jig floated from the strings of a violin to his right and the whole place was aglow with a warmth the musketeer had not sensed in any of his previous visitations that day. He soon realised that this was largely due to the calibre of patron found here; aside from a few shifty looking characters tucked away in a shadowy recess at the far side of the room and a pair of men and their paid mistresses at a table near the centre, there was no one here who he would have called particularly unscrupulous.

Porthos grunted as someone pushed past him and he found himself recanting these previous thoughts at the action; there were two men standing in front of him now, two men in red cotton shirts and black leather tabards, two men of the Cardinal's guard.

They had obviously had a similar idea as him and had left the more conspicuous elements of their uniform behind in order to blend in, but when your attire consists of red, red and more red, this is not always achievable. Porthos' brow furrowed as the red guards leaned in to speak with one another. He strained to hear their conversation, but the violin and raucous merriment drowned any hope of that happening. The musketeer's focus was drawn beyond the pair suddenly at a minute nod from the one at the left. He followed his gaze and came to rest on a lone woman seated at a table on the far wall. She was wearing a blue dress that didn't quite fit right and a dark heavy cloak was draped over the chair to her left. He couldn't make out the colour of her eyes, since her attention was held by a wooden bowl in front of her and this caused her brunette tresses to fall across her face.

The red guards turned their attention to the bar and finally moved out of Porthos' way. He seize the opportunity to make a beeline for the lone woman, not merely because she was being watched by red guards and he wanted to know why, but also because, even though he had forbidden Porthos drinking and gambling, Athos had said nothing about women…

* * *

She sat by herself at the table, nursing a half full carafe and bowl of thick, meaty broth. It didn't taste as good as she remembered, but she was glad of the sustenance and, even though she was eating alone, the bustle of people around her.

There was a violinist, at the far wall beneath a latticed window and positioned quite awkwardly between the curve of the bar and the steps leading from the door. Occasionally, he would be jostled and miss a note, but he was doing well, despite the distractions, to provide the throng with a lively melody to which some danced and others sang.

There were other groups who did not seem to even hear the music, engrossed in their own conversations at tables and in corners, palms curled defensively around frothing tankards.

The room itself was a moderate size, both large enough to accommodate an affluent number of people yet small enough to be bathed in the cool twilight haze offered by the solitary window.

A serving girl flitted around, deftly dodging the merrymakers with handfuls of lighted lamps and candles in small pots and dishes for the tables. With each one she placed, the air grew warmer and thicker, chasing the grey dusk from the room and exchanging it for a honey glow.

She turned her focus to her spoon and bowl, trying to quell the feeling of exposure she felt in such a crowded room. She knew she did not belong here and it was something she had realised almost as soon as she had entered. She had seen it in the raised eyebrows of the innkeeper's wife as she ordered supper. She had caught a glimpse of it in the eyes of the serving girl when she had brought her food, asking if she was expecting anyone else (to which she had replied in the negative). She even trapped the tail end of a disparaging whisper at her expense. Surveying the room, she realised that they were all right; apart from the serving girl and the innkeeper's wife there were only two other women in the room and they were both gaudy and loud and, she suspected, being paid for their company. And here she was, sitting without company at a table made for four, not a servant, proprietor or prostitute...and not belonging.

She might have belonged, once upon a time, way back when…but not now.

With this thought in mind, her appetite fled and she pushed the bowl away from her, surveying the surrounding space with cheerless focus. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped, turning her thoughts to more buoyant matters, like the name she would like if someone should ask her now. After pondering this for a moment or two she settled on Raine, thinking it fitting for such a situation; if she did not belong, she might as well be a Queen.

She felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips as she thought back on the first name she had given upon her arrival in Paris and the man she had given it to. She wondered what that man was doing now, if he was still attempting to break free of his bonds or whether he had given up, weakened by the fatigue inflicted by the cold flagstone floor or the fact that he hadn't eaten in four days. She felt a pang of guilt at this, but swallowed it back with a mouthful of water; starving him hadn't been a part of the plan and she had tried to feed him, but what was she to do when every time she removed his gag, he squealed like a stuck pig?

She jumped suddenly as an arm invaded her peripherals, finding purchase on the back of her chair. The man the arm was attached to leaned in as if he was about to plant a kiss on her cheek and she was about to protest when he spoke in hushed tones.

'You're being watched, so do yourself a favour and follow my lead.'

He leaned away then, fixing her with searching dark eyes which relaxed when she gave a curt nod. The man slid into the opposing chair and took up the glass in a gloved hand, he raised a subtle eyebrow and waited for the woman across from him to give a permitting nod, before filling the vessel and taking a swig.

As he lowered the glass, she took a moment to study him. His eyes were an indecisive colour; brown, but when the flicker of candlelight caught them they shifted to something lighter (instinctively, she called the hue burnt amber) and settled beneath a low but soft brow. He had darker skin than anyone she had seen in a long while and a tight mass of obsidian curls atop his head that matched his beard and moustache. There was a thin puckered line impressed vertically across his left eye and a gold ring dangled from his earlobe on the same side. His broad shoulders were encompassed by an ornate, tanned, leather jacket with a high neck, the collar of which was embellished with circular pieces of hide that put her in mind of fish scales. She found herself stifling a smile in reminiscence; he reminded her of someone she once knew, long ago and far away.

'What's your name?' The stranger asked suddenly and quietly, waking her from her reverie.

'Richelle.' Came her unexpected answer and she fought hard the urge to correct herself, knowing he would think her either mad or up to something immoral if she did so. Though, he appeared not to notice any sign of her inward debate and offered a short nod in greeting.

'Porthos.' he stated simply, stealing a moment's survey of the boisterous hall in as discreet a manner as he could muster. Richelle watched his gaze linger a moment at the bar and two men in red and black apparel. She felt her own eyes narrow in scrutiny at the pair and only tore her gaze away at a the sudden short laugh of her impromptu companion.

'Astute, aren't you?' He chuckled.

Richelle bristled a little at his compliment, fixing him with a raised eyebrow, 'And you are surprised?'

'A little.'

'Why? We are strangers, are we not?' Richelle straightened defiantly in her chair, the corners of her lips twitching in indecision, 'Or are you saying you are surprised because I am a woman and, as such, am not allowed to be astute? That there some unwritten code of social conduct that dictates that my gender must be simple and simpering and, even if we are astute, we are to keep our astuteness a secret lest we surprise the men folk?'

As soon as the words passed her lips and the table fell silent, Richelle began to regret her outburst. She did not know if it was the simple fact that she was tired of having no one to talk to or the fact that Porthos was a stranger and the pair were unlikely to see each other again, but the rant had charged unbidden from it's ivory cage, diving from her tongue word by word and falling into perfect sequence in the space between them. Something cold and hard dropped into the pit of her stomach and with it the realisation that she should not have been so reckless.

Richelle twisted her right leg beneath the silk petticoats she was still getting used to, discreetly testing that the steel of her dagger was in its rightful place should she need it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Poursuite**

The room Athos found himself in was small, musty and dark. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with hardy bookcases, adorned with a multitude of uniformed leather bound ledgers. There was a desk not a foot in front of the musketeer and this, though being constructed from a sturdy wood, was beginning to bow beneath a multitude of open and ink-blotted tomes and a haphazardly strewn array of quills, paperweights and inkwells.

The only light in the chamber radiated from a hearth to the right of the desk and Athos found himself moving to stand before it whilst casting an indifferent eye across the gaping books.

'This one here.' grated a voice from the doorway behind Athos, accompanied by the whisper of fabric on flagstone. The musketeer turned and backed himself up against the mantelpiece as far as he could without burning the edge of his cloak, watching as the bow-backed old man shrouded in coarse woollen robes the colour of mud, shuffled towards the bureau. Bony fingers unfurled a ledger and pointed to the relevant pages. Athos leant in, perusing the already yellowing pages with a conscientious eye.

After a few moments, he outstretched a hand and turned the page, casting his gaze on those that followed. He repeated the action twice more until the entries became fewer and farther between, eventually fading into blank leaves.

'I'm going to need copies of these.' Athos started, meeting the old man's gaze. He expected a sigh in resignation, but instead took in an acquiescing nod.

'Of course. Though I would be happy to relinquish the ledger itself, if that would be of more use.'

'That would be most helpful, thank you.'

The old man shook his head, pulled a rag from a fold of his robe and brought it to his mouth. A series of wet and chesty coughs shook the man's form then and Athos felt his eyes narrow in an expression of detached scrutiny.

'It's nothing.' The scribe offered eventually, out of breath. He stowed the piece of cloth and wiped his hands on his robes, he made a move to pick up the ledger, but Athos gathered it up for himself.

'What are you looking for, anyway? Not a murderer is it?'

The musketeer tucked the book under his arm and sidled around the old man, making his way to the door.

'Something like that.' came the reply as he lifted the latch and stepped out into the suddenly dark courtyard beyond. He could hear the whinny of horses in the stables across the square and the ragged intakes of breath from the posted guards, trying to draw warmth from the chill nocturnal zephyrs.

Athos waited for the old man to come to stand beside him, before turning back, 'Thank you for your co-operation, Monsieur. I will be sure to return the ledger to you once the matter has been concluded.'

'Always happy to help.' the scribe replied, taking a breath and digging for his rag again.

Athos spared the man a nod in parting before turning his attention to the city gate and the sound of approaching hooves. He rounded the corner to see five horses slowing into a trot at the bidding of their riders. As they neared the gateway, the guards approached and the flicker of torch light came to rest on the riders' faces.

Athos found himself nearing, taking in what he could in the dim light.

The riders were all men and were bedecked in old finery with cloaks of dusty greens and faded reds, sashes of sunset orange and pagan purple and scuffed boots of hard-wearing black leather. Two of them wore tri-corn hats, with feathers of speckled brown and white tucked into them. The others seemed content to go bare-headed, though one - the largest man with a coal black stare - had seen fit to tie a twisted bandanna above his brow.

'Dismount and state your business.' called one of the guards.

The men obeyed and slid from their mounts with relative ease. The foremost man of the group - and the one Athos assumed to be the leader - stepped forth a little, absent-mindedly smoothing the nose of his nag gently.

'Unpleasant business, I'm afraid.' He offered, a short laugh in its wake as he caught sight of the suspicious glares of the guards. Athos stepped forward too, making himself known in case these strangers were thinking of causing any trouble.

'And what's that, Monsieur?' He pried, voice calm and polite.

The man eyed him dubiously for a moment, before removing his hat and clutching it to his bosom in a show of reverence, 'We're here to see a friend of ours, but we also might be arranging a funeral.'

Athos watched as the man's gaze turned downwards in a gesture that he instinctively called theatrical.

'She's unwell, you see. Not expected to live beyond the week…'

The musketeer became acutely aware of the itch of eyes upon him and turned to find the guards' expectant attentions in his direction. He gave a permitting nod and crossed the stranger's path on his way back into the city.

'Very well, be sure to leave your names with the guards…' A glint of steel caught his eye as he passed the man and the side of his mouth twitched knowingly, '…And I trust we will have no trouble on your visit.'

Though this was not a question, the leader deigned to answer anyway, 'None at all, Monsieur…if I can help it.'

He gave something of a chuckle as the musketeer walked away, but his knitted brow aimed itself square at his back until he could no longer see him for the dark.

'Oi.' He began, addressing the smallest of the two guards, 'Who was that?'

'Athos, of the King's Musketeers.' came the faltering reply, broken by the fact the guard was uncertain if he should have shared such information with this stranger. He shook these thoughts from his mind and turned his attention, instead to the issue of duty.

'But never mind him, Monsieur; I'll be needing to know your name…'

'Perrault.' The stranger acquiesced with a smile, 'Capitaine Jean Perrault.'

* * *

Porthos stared across at Richelle, taken aback at her outburst and - though he would never have admitted it - just a little bit terrified. Her eyes were unmoving, trained on his own and harbouring an anger more than that which Porthos could take credit for.

For Richelle, it was almost as if the tavern had emptied at her reprimand; the only sound she could hear was the quickening beat of her heart, readying for escape.

She calculated inwardly, trying to remember the layout of the tables and exactly how far she would have to run in order to be free of this man, all the while careful to hold her gaze steady.

She'd have to leave her cloak behind, of course; any attempt to gather it would cost her precious seconds. Perhaps she could throw it over him in a swipe at disorientation. Would she have time to sweep aside her petticoats and take a hold of her dagger, before he righted himself? If she did manage to catch him off guard, what then? With the number of patrons around, she was sure a knife held to anyone's throat was sure to be notice by someone.

If she ran, would he be able to catch her? He was tall and muscular, yes, but that did not mean he was slow on his feet.

A chuckle bubbled in Porthos' throat, grounding Richelle. All at once the murmur of voices and the whine of tuned strings returned to the air. She felt her brow furrow, her mouth open with a will to question such a reaction, but the man across from her merely widened his smile.

'Angry, aren't you?' he teased, relieved to see the strange woman's expression soften at this. She leant forward a little then, running an ashamed hand through her hair. She looked fatigued all of a sudden, her cheeks a little paler, her lids a little heavier.

'Please, forgive me.' She sighed finally, her gaze finding the tabletop, 'I must be tired. The last few days have been...well...trying...and I am afraid I have not yet recovered myself.'

'You've done nothing that needs forgiving.' Porthos offered, pausing a moment as the serving girl approached, removing the half-empty bowl of broth.

When she was gone he continued, 'You're passionate; I like that in a woman.'

Richelle was taken aback at this statement, but found herself preening a little beneath Porthos' gaze. She studied him a moment more, before tilting her head to one side in curiosity.

'Who are you, Porthos?'

There was another chuckle on behalf of her new friend, 'What do you mean?'

'Who are you? Why is it you're so suspicious of our friends over there?' Richelle finished with a short illustrative nod. The red guards at the bar seemed oblivious of their blown cover.

Porthos took a few moments to answer, bidding a proximate silence ensconce the table, during which he refilled the glass and sipped.

'What do you think?' Came his eventual response, at which Richelle leaned back in her chair with a smile in self-satisfaction. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked the man opposite up and down.

'Well…given your dislike of the two red guard gentlemen at the bar and the fact you saw me and thought I needed rescuing…my guess would be…musketeer.' Her smile widened as Porthos nodded, impressed.

'Not bad. Not bad.'

'But, I suppose the real question is, what is a musketeer doing without his uniform in 'L'auberge de renard'?'

'Well now…if I told you that…' Porthos let his voice trail off, giving a shrug of his shoulders. The pair shared laughter at this statement, though it was neither loud nor long-lived.

'What about you?' Porthos posed eventually, 'Do you live in Paris?'

Richelle shook her head, plucking the glass from the musketeer's gloved grip in an action that he seemed to inwardly approve of. After taking a sip or two, she returned it to the tabletop with a shrug of her shoulders. Her gaze was transfixed by the cup as if she was deep in remembrance.

'No, I'm just tying up a few lose ends…' She seemed to falter a moment and her countenance shifted to indecision. Porthos was careful not to interrupt, figuring the woman had good reason. After a few seconds she seemed to make up her mind and opened her mouth to speak.

'I used to live in Paris. I grew up right here, in fact.' Richelle's eyes flickered upwards in delicious anticipation, glad when she found comprehension in the musketeer's eyes.

'Here? As in this tavern?' He probed, raising an eyebrow.

Richelle nodded, her focus bobbing dreamily above the heads of the tavern's customers 'My parents owned this place years ago. I grew up here. We were happy...' Her attention returned to the table in reminiscence before lifting at the behest of a short scoff from Porthos. Her brows knitted together in silent interrogation.

'Prove it.' the musketeer coaxed, a playful spark in his dark eyes. He watched Richelle ponder this for a moment or two, before outstretching her left hand and take a handful of the cloak beside her.

'Very well. I'll show you.'

Before standing, she took one last survey of the chamber, her gaze held momentarily by the red guards at the bar.

'If we hurry, we might be able to give our friends there, the slip.' She realised.

Porthos gave a nod and the pair stood in unison, careful to prevent the screeching of their chair legs on the floor. They began to pick their way slowly through the mess of tables and they were both grateful when they passed two newcomers making a beeline for the space they had just vacated. With any hope, the new arrivals would buy them a few seconds head start if the red guards looked up from their drinks.

Both Porthos and Richelle breathed a sigh of relief when they left the tavern and were embraced by the chill after dark air.

The musketeer watched as the strange woman swept herself into her cloak and started off to the right.

'This way.' She hissed, despite the fact she was certain they had not yet been followed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: Sème.**

The catch groaned as she lifted it deftly with her dagger and the sound pricked her heart with sadness. The minute protestation was enough to tell her that it had not been used in a good while and this supposition was confirmed in her mind when she pushed the glass inwards and gracefully lifted herself up and over the sill.

The air was rife with damp, so much so that she feared she may drown if she were to linger too long, and a survey of the room also revealed patches of mildew and mould in an assortment of hues and textures. There were stacked boxes all around, some pushed to the sides of the chamber, others into the middle, but each one was slowly fading into nothingness, rotting away, crumbling as if dust or carefully moulded sand.

She squinted in the dim dusty light, tried to remember how it had looked when she had last seen it, wishing for something to have remained the same.

The bed was vanished, as was her small toy chest that lay at its foot. There was no sign of the vanity unit and for some reason she imagined the attached mirror smashed. The floorboards were bare, save for a thick layer of dust, and she all at once lamented the absence of the rug, plush and delicious in pinks and reds and golds. Her parents never said how it had come to be there and she had always supposed it was a gift or something bought before the month they had no money and struggled to feed themselves. However it had come to be there, she had loved it and now her heart was aching to see it vanished.

'So where's this proof then?'

She felt ashamed to start at the voice, almost forgetting that she was not alone. She had only half-registered the scuff of boots behind her and the moaning of the near rotten floorboards beneath his weight.

Porthos crossed the space between them, watching her expression sadden somewhat at the scene. He wondered what the place had once been to inspire such a solemn countenance.

'Over there.' She stated finally, outstretching a hand and directing Porthos' attention to the far corner and the bowing beam that was struggling, after so many years of ill maintenance, to hold the ceiling up. A wall of crates, chests and barrels blocked the exact spot she was pointing too, but even if it might take him a little while to sidle through the wanting gap, she was sure Porthos could fit.

She waited for the musketeer to make his way over to the makeshift barrier before she offered further elaboration, 'This used to be my bed chamber.' She paused a moment, watching from her peripherals as Porthos raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched into a teasing smirk. She thought he might have uttered the words 'Oh, really?', but she was careful not to react. Instead, she merely allowed herself a reminiscent sigh and moved to the window where she leant against the sill and wondered if she could somehow acquire the L'auberge de Renard and make the room right again.

Her reverie was broken by a grunt from the musketeer as he caught an arm on the corner of a crate. The wooden wall of stacked containers shuddered with the force and threatened to upset itself. She fought back a snigger and settled instead for a smile and a reprimand.

'You'll have to be more careful, Porthos, we don't want to advertise our presence here.'

There was a jovial tone in her voice that summoned a chuckle from Porthos.

'No, I don't suppose we do.' Came his reply, followed quickly by a frustrated exhalation of breath, 'But I do have one question.'

'And what is that?'

'What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?'

There was a moment of silence between them and Porthos was beginning to wonder if the woman was ever going to answer him.

'You're looking for a carving…My initials carved into the wood of the beam…If I remember correctly there's a drawing too, a little picture or an emblem…'

Porthos squinted in the dim light, traced the grainy wood with gloved fingers, waiting for the tug of a fissure against the leather.

'I can't find anything.' He admitted finally, adjusting himself within the narrow space between plaster and wood and making his way slowly and carefully towards the more spacious area of the room. His brow furrowed after a moment or two of silence. He had expected a reply, a declaration of his idiocy perhaps or at the very least a simple, 'It's there, I assure you.' But there was nothing.

'Richelle?' He called out, quickening pace and rounding the last stack of crates in a second. Porthos peered around the poised boxes, spared the room a fleeting survey and ascertained rather quickly that the woman was nowhere to be seen.

The musketeer shook his head in an action that, rather than calming anger at the young woman's desertion, quelled in him the subsequent bemusement and disheartening.

Feeling rather foolish, Porthos finally broke free of the tight space and made his way over to the window half expecting to see Richelle, waving up at him jovially as if this were all a joke and, given a few moments, she would climb back up to him and they would embrace and lose themselves in tales of growing up in places completely contrary to one another, of childhoods full of different kinds of adventure and of adulthoods that failed to deliver on promises of gold, riches and exotic lands.

But the alley below was empty and a high wall prevented him from glimpsing the street beyond. He could see no sign of the woman in the ill-fitting blue dress and there was no one waving to him.

Heaving a sigh, Porthos lifted a leg to surmount the window sill, sparing the chamber one last fleeting look before turning back to the task at hand and fixing his gaze on the shingle under foot.

His gaze snapped back to the beam, however, as a colossal din erupted behind him. The wooden wall was disintegrating before his very eyes; barrels rolled, boxes bounced and clouds of dust rose up like phantoms awakened from their eternal slumber between the joins in the floorboards. The chaos settled itself after a moment or two, but was soon replaced by the thunder of angered footsteps and the cacophony of incensed voices.

Porthos gathered his werewithal just as the door swung open across the room, but before he lowered himself over the ledge and down into the passageway below to make his escape, he found his gaze shifting upwards to the lintel above the window and, with narrowed eyes, squinting against the dim light, he could just make out the engraving of the letters, '_L.B.'_

The letters were carved with care and precision and in an impressive cursive that would have been difficult to achieve even if it had been written on parchment, let alone carved into a once sturdy beam of wood.

Knowing he could linger no longer, the musketeer leapt from his perch on the roof tiles. He was fortunate enough to land on his feet and was able to make a hasty retreat almost as soon as he had made contact with the cobbles.

Porthos was wary of his being followed or even recognised and so took a long and winding route through the streets of Paris back to the Garrison. He arrived beneath the archway safe in the knowledge that he had neither been followed nor recognised (for he would surely have been confronted before now if he had) and headed for his quarters.

Only when he was inside and the door was safely locked behind him, did his thoughts turn back to the strange woman. Why had she tricked him? Why did she want to get rid of him so quickly? Was she hiding something? And what did the letters, '_L.B.'_ stand for if her name was Richelle?

With a resigned groan, Porthos decided that the woman was not worth his thoughts; she had nothing to do with the assignment at hand (so far as he could see anyway) and he had just wasted time following a whim of hers instead of doing his job and trying to track down something that could potentially threaten the safety of the entire city...the entire country.

The musketeer readied himself for bed, taking note of the darkened sky beyond the window, and settled into an uneasy sleep, hoping, for the sake of France and of Paris, that his comrades had been more successful in their ventures than he.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Patin**

To say that she didn't feel just a little bit guilty at having left Porthos in the loft room of L'Auberge De Renard, would have been a lie. She liked the musketeer; he seemed kind and helpful and didn't berate her even the slightest for her outburst in the tavern. In fact, he was refreshingly different from any of the other men she had encountered in a long while, but the fact of the matter remained that he was a musketeer and, at this moment in time, it would be prudent for her to lay low and stay away from anyone who could pose a threat to her business in Paris.

She had heard Porthos call her name just as her boots found the greasy cobbles of the alleyway. She stole a moment's glance at the window, half expecting to see the musketeer laughing down at her as if he had always known of her intentions and had been cunning enough to sidle out from behind the partition of long-forgotten possessions as soon as her back was turned. She imagined he had stood and watched her silently with folded arms and crossed to the window to watch her lower her form down with care. He winced when her petticoat caught on a broken tile and threatened to fell her. He was glad when she recovered and had been careful to speak her name only when she was safely grounded and brushing off the dirt the garment had acquired in the descent. She looked up at him and he trapped her in his burnt amber eyes, holding her focus until he dropped to the ground beside her. She would have considered running, but vetoed the notion as he reached for her shoulders, leant in and pressed his lips to hers.

She dispelled these unwelcome thoughts with a shake of her head, inwardly chiding herself for them. She turned her mind to business, ignoring the niggling voice inside her head that implored her to think on the musketeer and why she had imagined such a scene in the first place.

_I'm just tired._ She rationalised, taking a left onto a street that would have been busy were it not for the lateness of the hour. She strode onwards, flicked her mantle hood up, hid her face in shadows. She was doing well not to think on Porthos when she was halted by a tumult from the tavern. She could not help but to turn a momentary frantic gaze to its origin, but regained her senses almost immediately at the thought that Porthos would need to make a hasty escape after having caused such a commotion and the most likely path for him to take would lead him straight to her.

She pivoted, started down a side street, dodged a bawdy woman as she stumbled drunk in search of her next customer and shot across the next street, only sparing a glance over her shoulder when she believed she was far enough away from the inn to have lost Porthos completely.

She sought to slow her pace then, but before she had the time to turn her gaze forwards and do so, she came in contact with something at such a force that it knocked her to the ground and stole the breath from her lungs. She landed spread-eagled with a startled yelp on the flagstones below and this was accompanied by a dusty thud and the skitter of metal on stone.

She looked upwards from her unflattering position dubiously at a gloved hand and she was conscious to dispel the thought of Porthos that it summoned. She took the hand and as soon as she was righted she made a vague swipe at brushing herself off, before turning her gaze to its owner and, evidently, the something she had just run into.

It was a man. He was of an average height and his lean frame was bedecked in a rather non-descript black leather jacket, the only embellishment being an ornate pauldron adorned with a fleur-de-lis fastened across his right shoulder. At his belt swung a flintlock, the required paraphernalia in order to operate the pistol and a sword, the hilt of which glinted impressively in what little light it was afforded. Releasing her hand from his grasp, she shifted her gaze upwards to look upon his face. His hair was a dark colour and was secured beneath a tan velveteen hat with a wide brim. What little she could see that was not beneath the hat held a wave that could easily have been a result of neglectful grooming. His beard and moustache also seemed to have missed a trim or two; the corners of the moustache were beginning to curl, threatening to encircle his mouth and the beard appeared a little jagged as though it sought to reclaim the skin on the man's cheek when it really ought to follow neatly along his jawline.

'Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur; I didn't see you there.' She offered, affecting a demure dip of her head. She shifted her gaze to the cobbles beneath her boots and noticed the presence of a dull brown ledger between herself and the stranger. She stooped to pick it up, but in the action realised the blade was missing from her boot. She recalled the metallic scraping she had heard with her fall and, as she rose with the book, cast a sweeping gaze of the area in a bid to locate it. This did not take her long and she found its landing place to be a foot behind the stranger and a little to his left.

'That's quite alright, mademoiselle…' The man replied in a well-spoken, halcyon voice which she thought strange for him, given that his bearing suggested that he was a soldier of sorts, but not one of a particularly high rank. His voice also told her he wanted to know her name; the intonation had risen in pitch at the end slightly, coaxing her to fill in the gap.

She thought a moment, handed him back the ledger and acquiesced.

'Licia.'

The answer caused the man to dip the brim of his hat in a gesture of reception. He must have seen her eyes flicker behind him then as he twisted to follow her gaze. His own then fell upon the dagger.

This small action was enough to summon goose bumps to her flesh and she all-at-once began to think on a way she might subdue the stranger, retrieve her blade and escape. Her eyes darted in search of weapons, came to rest on the bracket of a swinging sign. If she was strong enough she could perhaps pull it free of its worn fastenings and deal the stranger a blow to the head.

But what if she was not strong enough? It would take an age to remove it, by which time the man would have realised what she was attempting and already apprehended her.

He turned his back on her, tucked the book beneath an arm, took a step in the opposite direction and bent for the knife. He rose slowly, the dagger resting almost ceremoniously across the fingers of both his hands. He pivoted, approached and then did something she had not expected; he pinched the blade between the fingers and thumb of his right hand and held the handle out to her.

She accepted tentatively, but knew really that she would not have left without the knife at all. Even if the man had picked it up and pocketed it, she would have found a way to get it back.

'Merci monsieur…' She managed, attempting the same intonation as he had dealt earlier.

The corner of his mouth twitched as if it wanted to form a smile but he forbade it. Instead, he gave something of a scoff in response and then answered, 'Athos, of the King's Musketeers.'

The revelation of his occupation was not exactly surprising, but she fought the urge to roll her eyes, inwardly wondering if the entire population of Paris had joined the King's Personal Guard since her last visit.

She attempted a grateful smile and bent a knee in an awkward courtesy (though she knew not why and was all-at-once left feeling foolish at the action).

'Well, Athos, I really must be going. Bonsoir.'

She made a move to pass him but was halted when he made no attempt to move out of her way.

'Very well, but before you take your leave, might I enquire as to what you were running from before? I would be glad to lend assistance in the matter if I can.'

'That's a very kind offer, Monsieur, but I was running from no one and no thing.' She articulated, despite the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears, and, when the musketeer had raised an eyebrow in apparent disbelief, added, 'I am merely late to tend my sickly father, I was out visiting a friend at his request and quite forgot the time.'

Athos seemed satisfied with this response since he shifted a little to let her pass.

'Then, don't let me keep you Mademoiselle Licia. Bonsoir.'

He finished with a nod in parting and allowed her to pass him. She did so slowly, conscious of the dagger in her palm and the flintlock at his belt. She began a measured backwards tread until she was a satisfactory distance from him, at which point she pivoted on her heel and recommenced her escape into the Parisian labrinth.

Athos watched after her, his eyes trained on Licia's back until the darkness enshrouded her completely. Soon enough she was entirely vanished from view.

He had forgotten the woman almost as soon as he reached the mouth of the passageway, thinking her inconsequential to the task at hand.

Athos made his way dutifully back to his rooms, where he saw fit to spend the night flicking through the pages of the ledger, a rapidly emptying bottle of port to hand.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: Ombre**

Though the hour was not particularly late by the time she reached the square by Purcell's wanting abode, she could already feel the ache of fatigue in her bones. The muscles in her lower back protested as she picked her way through the scattering of stall vendors, fishermen and boat hands as they finished their work and set off home at the instruction of the freshly darkened sky above. She knew the reason for the dull pain and she knew the remedy; a day or two of bed rest by a warm fire, a cauldron of salted beef broth bubbling away and perhaps a bottle of fine burgundy kept with a glass beside the bed, easily within reach.

Turning her focus away from these tempting thoughts for which she knew she could afford no time, she was all-at-once encircled by a sudden chill. Her heart skipped a beat and fear coiled itself around her spine as she rounded the corner and came in view of the window of her improvised accommodation.

Light flickered behind the pane, somehow bright enough to cast the movements within as spectres of writhing black against what little of the wall she could see. She flattened herself against the wall to her left, ignoring the chill of the greasy stone at her back, and watched the shadows, trying to ascertain how it was that Purcell might be free of his bonds. She caught the shape of Monsieur Purcell, his wiry figure gesturing violently and flitting in an out of her view. She couldn't hear him from her vantage point, but she imagined him in the thrall of a furious tirade, no doubt aimed at her. There was the shadow of another figure within, thicker, slower. Another man - she surmised, given the absence of tell-tale curves – followed the incensed fisherman as he paced, sometimes reaching out in an attempt at placation.

Suddenly, the shadows vanished and the wooden door flew open. The erratic Purcell burst from the house, his exasperated friend in tow.

'Vivienne!' crowed the fisherman, mustering as much fury and venom as he could, 'I'll kill you, you filthy whore!'

The words pricked her, but she remained hidden, her resolve strengthened by the sudden appearance of a flintlock in Purcell's right hand. She thought him drunk - or at least drunk with rage - and she didn't imagine he had loaded the weapon correctly, but to take the chance against him would be foolish.

She made to move from her hiding place, but thought better of it as her former captive started obliviously towards her direction. He scrutinised his immediate vicinity with unfocused eyes, wavering on the spot. She took a breath and held it, certain that if she made even the slightest movement, she would be buckled and most probably end up dead…or worse…

Her salvation came in Purcell's follower who approached the madman, deftly snatching the pistol from his friend's grasp.

'You're embarrassing yourself!' the stranger chided in a tone that was half reprimand, half concern.

'Come out, come out, wherever you are!' came the response, evidence of Purcell's miscomprehension or simple ignorance.

The stranger secured the pistol at his belt, before placing meaty palms on the fisherman's shoulders and leading him back toward the doorway. Purcell called out for her twice more before he was successfully conveyed over the threshold.

Once her former captive was safely out of sight, she felt it was time enough to make her escape. She pushed away from the wall and stood a moment in the alley, the light of a nearby lamp illuminating her form. She heaved a sigh but soon found herself holding it, suddenly feeling the itch of eyes upon her. She turned slowly, careful to keep her actions calculated and calm.

The larger man had paused at the door, surveying the square with guarded scrutiny. His gaze fell on her and she held it for a second or two, tensing her muscles, ready to run. She waited for the tic in his fat fingers, the signal that he was going to raise the flintlock as his belt and squeeze the trigger.

Instead, he gave a shake of his head and followed his friend inside.

She did not wait for the door to close behind him before breaking into a run. She ran for what seemed like an age, only coming to a halt when she reached a familiar street. She set her sights on the angled terrace and, careful to regain her composure, was at the desired door within a minute.

This time, the servant woman answered, gave a resigned roll of her eyes and swung the door open to admit her without a single word.

She crossed the threshold hurriedly, wholly oblivious to the green eyes that watched her from the window of the little terraced house opposite.

Nor had she noticed that, at the precise moment she had left the square, someone else had also skulked in the shadows, their focus on the worn, wooden door of the house belonging to Monsieur Davin Purcell.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: Miséricorde**

The servant woman led her into the dining room where Gaspard sat alone at one end of the lengthy mahogany table. The table itself was set with a meal far too large for one man and embellished with fine filigree napkins and lavishly decorate crockery and cutlery. An ornate silver candelabra held pride of place in the centre, lit with tapered candles of red and gold. Flames from a decadent fireplace lent the room both warmth and light, enough at least for Gaspard to take in the flushed cheeks of his guest and the upset in her brow.

Upon recognising the signs of exertion and stress in his old friend, the former Red Guard rose from his seat, hesitating only a moment to remove the serviette from under his chin, and swept her into one of his trademark embraces.

'Whatever is the matter?' he asked, genuinely concerned as he released her.

She stole a moment to catch her breath before waving away his concern, 'Nothing, Gaspard. I assure you, I'm quite alright.'

She watched him raise a disbelieving eyebrow and she could not help but to falter beneath his coaxing expression.

'Elle…' he probed.

The woman in question remitted with a sigh.

'Fine…I actually wondered if I might stay with you the night. The place I was staying in was…well…compromised.'

The confession was rewarded with a laugh, a loud and lengthy chuckle that seemed ever so slightly reprimanding. An arm came down heavy, yet painless, on her shoulders and Gaspard led her to the empty seat to his left.

'Of course, my girl! Of course! Stay as long as you like.' He paused a moment, gave her shoulders a squeeze and then added, 'Come. Have some supper.'

She shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced as the arm applied pressure. Fatigue found her unable to resist and within moments she was pulling the seat closer to the surface. The servant woman appeared seemingly out of nowhere and set a space before her. She afforded her a grateful smile and watched the old woman shuffle from the room.

Gaspard returned to his own chair and tucked the napkin into his collar. He leaned forwards with a shake of his head, helping himself to a slice of cured pork and a spoonful or two of roasted Pomme de Terres.

'Though, why you didn't just stay here in the first place, is beyond me!' He chortled, popping a potato in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He regarded his impromptu guest expectantly as she shrugged off the cloak and dished herself up a few potatoes and a small sliver of meat; though lassitude ensconced her, she found hunger had deserted.

'I thought it would be best to find accommodation elsewhere...' She replied eventually, taking the time to act as expected and cut herself a bite sized piece of pork. '…given the nature of my business here. My last intention was to place you in any danger.'

Gaspard afforded her an understanding nod, 'Bien sûr…and merci for worrying about me, my girl, but I hope now you realise your foolishness and that you stay here for the remainder of your time in Paris.'

'Thank you, Gaspard.' She offered with a demure smile, 'However, I don't intend to stay for much longer. It's only a matter of time before…'

She faltered, her mind suddenly blank for want of a word. She knew what she wanted to say, knew the name she wanted to give, but in doing so, she would endanger the life of her old friend. There were secrets she kept even from him and she had no intention of revealing them right this moment. She took a second, checked herself, continued.

'Before _someone_ catches on.'

Gaspard eyed her suspiciously, noticing the pause and the emphasis on the word she had so carefully chosen.

'The musketeers, for example.' She hurriedly added, 'The city seems suddenly overrun with them.'

'Ah yes…The Musketeers.' Gaspard sneered. He leant back in his chair, fixed his gape on the ceiling rose, pondered the consequences of the King's Personal Guard getting hold of the information Elle currently possessed. He subconsciously shuddered at the thought.

She waited patiently for Gaspard to expand on this lacking avowal, but she soon grew weary of the silence.

'In all honesty, I hadn't expected it to take this long.'

Gaspard dropped his focus, narrowed his eyes in miscomprehension.

'Isn't there something you might do?' she implored, laying her cutlery down and reaching across to lay a hand upon her host's.

After a few more moments of reticence between them, her host heaved a heavy sigh and gave a nod. He found himself looking down at the hand over his, momentarily, taking in the thin, but capable fingers, the hardened and blemished skin. Inwardly, he wondered at the reason behind these features, an expression of intrigue crossing his brow, but this soon melted into a smile.

'For you, my dear, there might be something I could do…but it's getting late and I'm not long from sleep.' He gave a yawn as if to illustrate his point and rose from his chair, shedding himself of the napkin and sliding his hand gently from beneath his guest's. 'I'll make a visit in the morning.'

She offered gratitude at this conclusion and matched his movements, despite her host's insistence that she could stay at the table and continue supper, if she so wished. It had taken some persuasion, but after a short while, Gaspard seemed satisfied that she wasn't hungry and showed her to the room in which she was to spend the night. They said good night at the threshold and she allowed him to fold her into his arms once more.

'Bonne Nuit, ma fille.'

'Bonne Nuit, vieil ami.'

* * *

Perrault was glad to have found the man alone. Andreas had reported back two men in the house and, even though he wouldn't have minded the challenge, he was fast becoming restless. Every second there was of delay, his prize would slip further and further out of reach...

The Captain did not rightly care what had happened to the other man, so long as he didn't come back and start causing trouble, it was all the same to him.

'I'll ask you again…' Perrault sneered, eliciting an excited snigger from his gathered crewmen. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, studied the smear of blood on his knuckles.

The man before him groaned, exhausted, weakened, petrified. His head drooped forwards and he had lost all the will to stand or even support his own weight sitting. He was currently being held up by the two largest members of Perrault's crew, one at each side gripping his upper arms.

'Monsieur Purcell?'

The fisherman's head bobbed sleepily upwards. He tried to blink away the blood and the bruising so as to better see his newest captor, but this soon proved an exercise in futility. Everything in his body ached; he had been ill-prepared for attack. He had waited up for the woman, for Vivienne, in the hope that she might return so that he could teach her some manners and some gratitude. He had been left alone shortly after midnight, his friend growing bored of his tireless tirade and leaving him only a bottle of wine for company. In a way, Davin was glad he had finished the bottle by the time the men had knocked at his door; though the shock and subsequent beating had sobered his mind some, the alcohol was at least going some of the way to dull the pain.

'Monsieur Purcell, are you still with us?'

He gave a lazy nod, inhaled in dreadful anticipation, spat a mouthful of blood which hit the flagstone with a disconcerting clatter.

'Good.' Perrault drawled, curling his fingers into a fist for what had to be the eleventh time that night, 'Then you can still answer my questions.'

Purcell shook his head in defeat, 'I tol' you…' he began, the muscles in his jaw throbbing and thickening with each syllable, 'I dun know…where she wen'…'

'Now, now, Purcell...' Perrault chided, clicking his tongue and allowing a sadistic smile to spread across his lips, '…let me ask the questions, first. Remember your manners, now.'

The beaten man fought hard the urge to scoff at this remark. He could appreciate the irony of the situation and could not help but to think back on his exchange with his rescued woman over the mantle on the bed.

'_Pardon my actions, Mademoiselle…but, it seems to me that you are being decidedly ungrateful.'_

The words stung in his mind, his vision blurred not merely by blood, but by onus as well. He wondered about his interactions with the strange woman, if he had been a true gentleman whether he might have avoided this situation, or at the very least, not have been so weakened by his days as a bound captive. He might have been able to defend himself if he had been stronger, if he had eaten properly and slept someplace other than the gritty stone tiles.

He was shaken from reminiscence at a short shove from the man on his left. He bid his knotting neck muscles raise his head, fixed the man before him with his swollen gaze.

'I don't like repeating myself, Monsieur Purcell, so please do try to pay attention.'

There was a beat of silence and Purcell braced himself, expecting another blow to the face or a well-aimed strike to his stomach. He held an optimistic breath when nothing came, but this faltered at the sound of Perrault's voice.

'Did you touch her?'

Purcell would have frowned at that question had his bloated brow allowed. He had expected the same question as before; where had Vivienne gone? That was what they wanted to know, wasn't it?

His mind reeled, suddenly lost for an answer. He waited for as long as he physically could, choking out a response in the negative just as Perrault made a move to speak.

'No, o' coarsh not!'

Perrault narrowed his eyes, took a breath, shook his head. He turned to his crewmen. The fisherman caught a shaking head in his peripherals and this small action was enough to summon fresh tears to his already watery eyes.

'We don't believe you.'

The statement was cold and grainy. The gloating tone that should have been there was replaced by something darker, something that Purcell couldn't name. He swallowed in awful anticipation, grimacing as something slick and coppery slithered down his gullet. He winced as a hand tangled itself violently in his hair, jerked his chin up.

The Captain pressed his face close to that of the fisherman then, closing the distance so that Purcell could feel Perrault's breath, smell the scent of the sea on his skin.

He whispered two words to him then. Two small words that churned Purcell's insides and made him want to vomit.

'She's mine.'

With this, came the assault, the relentless attack on face, body, limbs. The two men released him and he crumpled to the floor. He tried to shield his face with his forearms, crying out when a well-placed kick shattered his left wrist. Something cracked in his torso, snapped in his foot. He coughed and spluttered blood, teeth and chunks of flesh unintentionally torn from his tongue and cheek as he set his jaw against the barrage.

It was in these moments, the moments before the unconsciousness that came with exhaustion and shock, Davin Purcell vowed that, should he survive the night and live to cross paths with the woman he rescued from the Seine again, he would apologise for his behaviour.

Either that, or he would kill her for bringing such a fate down on him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: Résultats**

A crisp, pastel dawn had long broken over the Garrison by the time Porthos made his way down into the courtyard. However, it was not so late that there were many people about. A few of his comrades shuffled along in search of sustenance, others leant patiently at the foot of the stairs leading from the barracks, awaiting the familiar faces of friends.

Porthos lowered himself onto the bench, took up an empty cup from the table, but made no effort to fill it from the ancient leather carafe.

His intention had been to put Richelle well and truly out of mind, hoping that a night's sleep might banish the trickster woman from his memories. However, he had found this was not the case. Every time he closed his eyes he had seen her own staring back at him, the snow sky blue shifting to a more royal shade at an expression of anger. He pictured her dark tresses and what scent they would carry if he should be allowed to lose himself in them. He imagined lavender, though he knew not why.

He hardened his heart suddenly, remembering the loft room and the deception that almost saw him in irons at the behest of the inn's Red Guard patrons of the evening. He had reached the cobbles below with little difficulty, knowing full well that he would easily be able to stand the fall from such a height and paused only a moment to take in the faces at the wanting window. The two men of the Cardinal's Guard looked down at him with initial miscomprehension, whilst another, angrier face jostled into the space between them. He took this face to belong to the tavern owner since he cried out for his arrest. He could not fathom whether the Red Guard recognised him, nor whether they knew him a musketeer, but he reasoned he could not linger to find out. One of the red men vanished from the window and Porthos took this as his cue to leave, starting off to his right, ducking into an alleyway as soon as he had the chance.

It had taken the musketeer a long while to return to the Garrison, having the forethought to choose a lengthy and inefficient route in an attempt to confuse anyone that might have followed him. He had slowed his pace by Pont Neuf and had found himself pausing a moment on the steps of Notre Dame.

When he was certain that he had not been trailed so far (if he had been so at all, that is) he had returned to the Musketeer Headquarters.

Needless to say, between the lateness of the hour at which he returned and the persistent thoughts of the strange woman, Richelle, he hadn't achieved much sleep.

Porthos was rubbing at the exhausted itch in his eyes when Aramis and Athos sat themselves down opposite. Athos placed a dusty mud-coloured tome on the table's surface, whilst Aramis swiped the cup from Porthos' grasp, playfully, filling it to the brim with the contents of the jug. The larger musketeer fought back a groan and the thoughts of Richelle that this action summoned.

'Rough night?' Aramis pried, a teasing smile on his thin lips.

Athos took a moment to scrutinise his friend and comrade, 'Now Porthos, I thought I said no drinking and gambling.'

The former Comte de la Ferre gave something of a scoff then, the tone in his voice gently chiding as if he was inwardly reprimanding himself for having set the man such an impossible task in the first place.

Porthos gave a shake of his head, offered a smile, 'You did...and I followed your instruction…to the letter...'

His comrades eyed him suspiciously a moment before comprehension dawned in Aramis.

'A woman, then!' he laughed, raising the cup in something of a congratulatory toast, before taking a swig. He placed the vessel back on the table before leaning in, 'Where did you meet her, Porthos? Was she beautiful? Did she possess your heart as soon as you laid eyes on her?'

Porthos held out a hand to halt his friend, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by the arrival of their young Gascon.

'Who's this?' he probed, settling on the trestle beside Porthos.

Aramis took it upon himself to answer, 'It seems that Porthos, here, found himself a young woman last night.'

'Oh really?'

The musketeer in question heaved a sigh, pre-empting the next query, 'She was a trickster and charlatan, nothing more.'

He expected more interrogation, but his friends reconsidered as darkness crossed the larger musketeer's features.

'Well, then.' Athos stated simply, trying to get his brothers in arms back on track, 'What did you find out from Levesque?' He addressed Aramis and D'artagnan, a searching gaze first finding one and then the other.

'Nothing definitive…' D'artagnan began, '…He seems to think that Gaspard Renaud may be involved. He said he saw a woman enter his house five days ago.'

'The night of the storm.' Aramis corroborated.

D'artagnan gave a nod, 'He said that the rumours about the plans started the very next morning.'

Athos gave a thoughtful nod, 'Did he see where this woman went? Did she stay with Gaspard?'

'Levesque followed her when she left, but lost her when the storm picked up again.' Aramis offered with a shake of his head, 'He reckoned she was staying somewhere near the riverfront, but couldn't say for certain.'

Silence fell between them for a moment as they thought on the information.

Porthos broke it with a furrowed brow, turned his focus to Athos, 'Did you find anything out from the city gates?'

Athos shook his head, fixed the ledger before them with a resigned glower, 'Nothing of much significance. There are a few questionable names that have made their way into Paris over the last week or so, but none, I'd wager, who would be in possession of anything as potentially volatile as these plans.'

'So what next, then?' Porthos queried, guilt weaving around each syllable. Perhaps, if he hadn't allowed himself to become so distracted, he might have learned something useful from his study of the taverns. He was inwardly grateful that his friends refrained from berating him for it, but was sure that they were nevertheless annoyed at his failure, given the looming substantial threat to Paris and to France.

D'artagnan shook his head, gave a shrug of his shoulders and lifted his eyes to search the compound for inspiration or answers. He caught a sweep of movement beneath the archway and the familiar form of the blonde child he had met only the day before. The boy was accompanied by an unfamiliar woman and D'artagnan could not help but assume that she was the mother Levesque had spoken of.

The young Gascon narrowed his eyes, twisted so as to better take in the scene.

'Aramis, look.' He implored, the creak of leather behind him telling him that not only had Aramis lifted his focus to the woman and boy, but that Athos and Porthos had also done so.

They watched as the woman hesitated, searching the courtyard for anyone that might assist her. The musketeers collectively rose from their seats and were about to approach when the little boy cried out excitedly, pointing in their direction.

Both parties started towards each other, meeting somewhere in the middle of the space between them. The woman was the first to speak.

'Excusez-moi, but I was looking for Aramis and D'artagnan.'

Aramis stepped forth with a smile, extending this greeting to the young boy as well, 'I'm Aramis and this is D'artagnan.' He paused a moment to gestured to the Gascon, 'And also, our comrades Porthos and Athos.'

When addressed, each musketeer afforded the stranger a nod in greeting and a kindly smile.

'How might we be of service?' Athos queried, adding, 'Madame…' with the same upward intonation as he had employed the night before with the woman in the alleyway.

'Martin. Genevieve Martin.' She answered, readily, unsure as to whether they had been informed of her part in Etienne's espionage. She dropped her eyes, regarded the child at her side with the warmest of affectionate smiles, 'And this is my son, Jacques.'

The child looked up, gave something of a wave and squeaked an excited, 'Bonjour'. The assembled musketeers, replied in kind and this seemed to please youngster and he dissolved into enthusiastic giggles.

Genevieve then fixed the musketeers with stoicism, 'I have come with a message from my brother…from Etienne.'

The musketeers' all-at-once straightened at this avowal.

Aramis chased the concern from his mind at this revelation, but couldn't help but to pry, 'Nothing the matter, I hope?'

Genevieve afforded him a shake of her head, quelling the musketeer's unease, 'Etienne asked me to tell you that the woman returned to Gaspard's last night. He watched the house all night and she hadn't yet left when he sent me here. He said he would follow her if she did so, but thought that you would want to know.'

'Merci beaucoup, Madame Martin. We will make our way there now.' Athos expressed, making a move towards the archway. D'artagnan followed keenly, sparing Genevieve a nod and Jacques a small wave in parting.

Aramis lingered a moment, took Genevieve's hand, grazing her knuckles with his lips in a tender expression of respect and gratitude. She seemed a little taken aback at this, but made no protest against it. Porthos, on-the-other-hand gave a roll of his eyes and turned his attention to little Jacques.

'Nice work.' he offered, watching the boy beam in response, 'Keep on like that and you'll make a great musketeer!'

'Like my uncle?' The boy squealed, 'Like you?'

Porthos leaned in, lowered his voice, 'Better.' He offered the boy a wink and placed a finger to his lips. Jacques mimicked the action, stealing a glance at his mother to see if she had heard them. She affected ignorance.

Just then Athos' voice rang out around the compound and the two lingering musketeers straightened suddenly at their names. They dipped the brims of their hats in a synchronic parting gesture and jogged to catch up with their comrades.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: Téméraire**

After knocking at Levesque's door and receiving no answer, the musketeers quickly concluded that the woman must have left Gaspard's after all, and that their hidden comrade must have followed her.

They moved away from the house and convened beneath a ramshackle awning seemingly cobbled together from a collection of already gnarled and rotten pieces of wood.

'We mustn't stay too long in one place.' Surmised Athos, surveying the bustling street and catching the suspicious glances from one or two of the inhabitants, 'We cannot risk exposing Levesque.'

He waited for his friends and comrades to express agreement, before giving further instruction. 'D'artagnan, Aramis, why don't you start at that end of the street?' He outstretched his left arm, directing them to the section of the street that ended with a sharp right turn by a shop front that named itself simply 'La Boucherie'.

'Porthos and I will take the other side.' Athos finished, started off in his chosen direction, Porthos in tow. The older Musketeer paused a moment, turning back.

'If anyone finds Levesque, tell him we'll meet him back at the house.'

D'artagnan and Aramis set off to the left, adopting a slow, yet purposeful pace. The young Gascon wore nothing that pegged him as a soldier of the King's Personal guard (precisely because he wasn't, as of yet), but he was not spared the disparaging whispers or the guarded, sometimes even fearful and guilty, expressions offered by the inhabitants of the street.

They reached the end of the street before very long and stood a moment in deliberation outside the Butcher's.

'This is getting us nowhere.' Seethed D'artagnan, affording a few of the residences of the surrounding houses a sardonic wave as they gathered to gossip at their expense. At the gesture, and realising suddenly that they had been buckled, the small group dispersed and return to their usual everyday activities.

'Calm yourself, D'artagnan.' Chuckled Aramis, surveying the depressing selection of shops and houses that made up the place. Everything and everyone seemed grey and gloomy. Not that everything was the colour grey (in actual fact the buildings were typically white or tan in colour, criss-crossed with beams in black or brown and the inhabitants, though evidently not an affluent people, mostly wore faded reds, greens or the familiar brownish tan hue. No, it seemed to Aramis that someone had settled a great cloud above the street, blocking it from the sun's view and, thus, stealing away the warmth and brightness that came with it.

Aramis concluded his study of the street at the row of houses that had been pointed out to him by Levesque the day before. An old woman shuffled from the back door of the house, an armful of stiff, colourful fabric in her arms. He watched a moment more as the woman spread the resisting cloth over a low piece of rope suspended between two wooden poles. She then disappeared back inside, momentarily, re-emerging with a rattan tool with a long handle and a flat, plaited head.

The musketeer felt his eyes narrow subconsciously and a smile cross his lips.

'We could always ask...' he proposed, smile unwavering at D'artagnan's incredulous countenance.

The young Gascon opened his mouth to point out the foolhardy aspect of the proposed endeavour, but Aramis proceeded either oblivious or ignorant, taking off towards the servant woman.

For want of any other option, the would-be musketeer followed after his companion, only stopping when he came beside him at the wall of the old woman's yard.

'Excuse us,' Aramis called out.

The woman, though hidden from view by the rug she had been beating, heard him and ceased in her actions. She laid down the beater and shambled into the musketeer's line of sight. He greeted her with a smile designed to placate and reassure, but her features maintained an impatient and work-worn scowl.

'What d'you want?' she asked curtly, taking a moment to look the pair up and down. She stiffened and folded her arms upon noticing the pauldron and cloak draped around Aramis' form.

For a moment, she looked as if she might allow him to answer her question, but then she inwardly decided better of it and gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

'Master's not in, 'fore you ask. An' even if 'e was, I doubt he'd wan' ta talk to you.'

'Actually,' ventured D'artagnan, 'we've come to ask about an acquaintance of his.'

'Name?'

The response was came suddenly, wholly unexpected by the pair, so much so that they were silent a moment too long whilst each searched for an answer.

The old woman rolled her eyes and tried again, 'What's this acquaintance's name?'

Aramis answered with a short laugh, 'Actually, we were hoping you might tell us.'

D'artagnan treated the woman to his best in coaxing smiles, but was unsure if this would have much impact. The old woman regarded them for a moment, eyes narrowed as if in the throes of some inward debate. Eventually, she gave a nod.

'I assume yer meaning the young woman?'

'In the blue dress? Yes.' The Gascon clarified.

'Her name is Elle. She's an old friend 'o Monsieur Renaud's. Known each other years, ever since she were a young'un.'

Aramis and D'artagnan shared incredulous glances before turning back to the servant woman, bemusement written in their faces.

The woman gave a gloating chuckle in response, 'It's an arrangement, ta answer yer next questions; I'll answer any question you ask 'o me, but I won't keep yer visit a secret from the master.'

'I suppose that's fair enough.' Aramis surmised slowly, with a shrug of his shoulders, trying his best to dispel the creeping guilt at the fact that he may have just inadvertently alerted the retired Red Guard to their interest in his guest.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: Inquiétude**

Melancholy tainted her gait as she crossed to the window and drew back the curtains, her mind all-the-while loathe to forget the dreams that had come the night before. These sleeping visions had heralded a longing in her, something that she had somehow been able to repress since her arrival in Paris. She put the dreams down to her accommodation and the significant improvement upon her previous sleeping arrangements. Though, given her mind's disquiet, she very nearly preferred Purcell's pauper cot to Gaspard's plush guest bedstead.

She had slept straight through - something that she had not achieved at the fisherman's abode - but she had paid the price for it...

As she slept, she had dreamt of the tavern she knew no longer, the ocean she had left Paris for and those she had lost along the way.

One moment, she was sitting on a stool by the worn wooden bar, tracing invisible circles on the fissured grain with her four-year old fingertips whilst her mother bustled about with swilling cups and steaming bowls for the patrons and her father served drinks and shared jokes, all the while casting a warm and protective gaze over her.

When the tavern filled and the noise level rose, her mother scooped her up, conveyed her to the loft room, tucked her into bed.

With a kiss, she was gone, suddenly replaced by stacks of boxes and decades of mildew and mould. The bed vanished beneath her, the vanity unit cracked and dissolved. She wiggled her toes, taking comfort in the lavish fibres underfoot, spreading out in rich, rosy hues. Within a moment, this too was gone and she fought back a grimace as floorboards, rough and splintered with age, found their way beneath her soles. She felt older then, ten at the very youngest.

The room darkened and a wall of barrels, boxes and crates steadily grew along to her right, before crumbling suddenly, shivering to the floor. She watched, in terrific wonder as dust from the floorboards rose up to form ghostly figures, four in total.

At first, they formed nothing but vague humanoid shapes, but as she studied each one in turn, it writhed and solidified, becoming those she knew or, at the very least, once had.

Her mother's tear-stricken eyes were on her, unfocused, unseeing. She tried to call for her, but something hard and lumpen stuck in her throat. She tried to reach for her, but her fingertips found no purchase.

She looked around for help, found her father, almost ran to him, but was halted at his behest; a boney, withered hand outstretched, bade her stay away. At first she wondered why, then the man before her buckled. He bent double, hands on his stomach, a series of sodden, gurgling coughs shaking his weakened form. He paused and straightened at the sound of something wet striking the floorboards. He was still wheezing when morbid curiousity overcame her and she searched for the reason for such a sound. Somehow, she knew what she would find, but the sight of blood in the dust still shocked her.

She wrenched her gaze away, screwed her eyes closed at the offensive globule, found herself in a tender embrace. Looking up, she could not help but to breathe a sigh of relief. The smiling face of Gaspard Renaud greeted her and for a moment she was safe, protected, untroubled, but this was only a moment.

Something rough took hold of her right wrist, snatching her away from her saviour. She took in the claw around her forearm, traced the appendage with her gaze, soon finding the other hand. In it a pistol, aimed square at Gaspard's chest. A scream curdled in her throat as the trigger was pulled and the pellet buried itself in his heart. She wailed and thrashed and beat at the arm holding her, until finally it relented, loosed its grip.

Her first thought was to run to Gaspard, to dig out the shot with her bare, hardly eighteen year old hands, but then she felt the sun's warmth on her skin, noticed the open window.

Something stirred within her; a twinge, barely there, but quickening. A minute twitch in her stomach. She knew what it meant. It told her to flee, to run as far and as fast as she could and never look back. Without a second's thought, she pivoted, gathered up the hem of her night shirt and bolted the sill.

Her stomach lurched then, immediately recanting the reckless decision...

For an age she fell, tumbling into nothingness.

She gasped as the ground broke at her back and something thicker and slicker than air entered her lungs. She cried out mutely, protested the sensation she had already experienced and had no desire to do so again. She flailed and sought salvation, but there was none to be found in the icy void around her and once again, she surrendered herself to the Seine's shroud.

Suddenly, there was something around her, a band of warmth, threading itself under her arms. It lifted her, the pressure lessening with every second of ascension. She found herself unexpectedly able to breathe, the wood of a deck beneath her, the mast of a frigate reaching for the sky above. There was a tropical warmth on her cheeks and she breathed deep the scent of hibiscus and coconut palms.

A feeling unnamed bid her focus fall to her left and she gasped to find Porthos staring back at her. He wore a smile as warm as the air around them and she felt the subconscious twitch on her own lips as they strived to match his expression. Porthos outstretched a hand, took her own in a leather clad palm. She resolved to fix her gaze on his, smile unwavering, contentment sweeping over her on the breeze.

However, the longer she stared into his burning amber orbs, the less solid the surface at her back became. Something cold and damp spread beneath her and the stench of earth and excrement filled her nostrils.

She turned a panicked gaze skywards, her heart sinking as the masts metamorphosed before her eyes; they became shorter, stouter, twisted, gnarled. They widened and became crooked and hollow, no longer the symbols of freedom and adventure, but rather the homes of the downtrodden and destitute.

She found her hand suddenly free of the musketeer's grasp and she dug her palms into the mud beneath her, pushing upwards and rising in horrific bewilderment. A bustling market square apparated around her, people barged past one another, called out in voices either strengthened or withered by poverty. Beggars asked for coin, mongers promoted their wares in squawking, alto voices and larger men held knives to the throats of the misfortunate. All of them, merely playing the hand that had been dealt them.

She had realised, in those half-black thoughts before waking, that she would rather have the scent of the sea breeze that that of the city squalor. That she would rather stand on the deck of a ship than the sludge of a street corner. And, with these thoughts, came the knot in her stomach, the niggling thought in the back of her mind that branded the notion imprudent. She knew that she couldn't return. Not now. Possibly never. There was a taste of bitterness on her tongue as she shifted the blame from herself to another.

Yes, _she_ had made the decision and yes, _she _had stolen the long boat and wrought an escape from the ship, but she had only done so out of necessity, out of self-preservation, of duty, of discontent. The blame for such feelings resting solely on the shoulders of one man, a man whom she hoped never to cross paths with again.

She stood a long while at the window, regarding what little she could see of the street below with disdainful curiousity. She watched the scene play out in front of her, a pantomime of futility. The same people, performing the same actions over and over again. They wake up with the dawn, spend the daylight hours toiling for a dismal wage, return home with the dusk and repeat the same routine the next day and the next and the next. That is, until their hearts finally give out and all they have to leave behind is a pittance and a starving family. She wondered how she ever called this place home, how anyone but the wealthy or the privileged could ever call the city home. Then a cold, hard fear dropped into the pit of her stomach as she scrutinised the withered and wasted forms that called the street their home. Was that what she was about to become?

Stowing the barbarous thoughts, she proceeded to shrug the dress - which had, she supposed, inadvertently become hers - over the petticoats she had slept in. She made a vague swipe at improving the fit of the bodice, lacing it up tighter, but the result was disappointing; it still hung loose around her bust (though admittedly, not as much as before) but now appeared too restricting around her stomach. She inhaled deeply, testing whether it might do, but quickly loosened the fastenings at a protesting ache in her abdomen.

She studied herself in the ornate standing mirror, occupying the corner left of the window. A hand flew unbidden to her right cheek as she caught sight of a glimmer of moisture on her lids. The dress didn't fit properly, _this _didn't fit properly. She no longer suited the expected garb of her gender and she no longer suited the streets of Paris.

True, once her business in the city was concluded, she could go anywhere. Once she had the coin, she could leave Paris and she need never return. Despite this, she would still be land bound, forced to eke out a modest existence, lying low, merely surviving. It wouldn't be right to return to a ship. Not, at least, for a long while.

Regaining her composure and taking a deep breath, she made a conscious effort to chase the unwelcome contemplations from her mind and turned her attention, instead, to the day ahead. She swept from the room with the intention of seeking out Gaspard, but was soon informed by his servant that he had left an hour or so ago. She retired to le salon and spent some time browsing the floor to ceiling bookshelves either side of the grand fireplace, before she was hastened from the room at the behest of the old woman's cleaning routine.

Bored with the house and feeling very much in the way, she lingered in the dining room, only settling on an activity upon catching her reflection once again, this time in the window. She set her brow, folded herself into the cloak (which had been left draped over the back of the chair, throwing into question the servant's reasoning for her leaving the living room) and strode, purposefully, into the foyer.

She swung open the door with a hasty determination and swept herself out into the street beyond.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: Accusé**

Unease bubbled in her stomach as she reached the door.

She had stood a while across the square, staring attentively at the hovel, watching for any movement within. When she had satisfied herself that the house was, indeed, unoccupied, she had crossed the courtyard with an air of purpose which no one questioned.

Her intent had been to seek out the key, slide it into the lock and enter the small dwelling as if it were hers all along. However, she had faltered on the door step, staring with bemusement at the weathered portal as it swung inwards with only the slightest application of pressure from the tips of her fingers.

Instinct told her to run, but hubris and curiousity conveyed her over the threshold. She lingered in the doorway, the scene before her summoning a nauseous lump to her gullet. The once rough flagstones on the floor were now slick with blood, dark and congealing. The source of the blood was a crumpled mass by the foot of the hearth and, though she could not see the man's face, she already knew his name.

Deftly, she pushed the door back into its frame, not daring to move her eyes from Purcell's lifeless body. Transfixed, she found herself approaching, paying no mind to the boot prints she cast in the crimson pool beneath her, nor to the way in which her petticoats and skirt seemed wont to try and soak up the blood with each step she took further into the space.

She came within arm's reach of the discarded man, lowered herself into a mindful crouching position and outstretched a hand to turn him, fighting back a grimace when the fisherman's face came into view.

A bloated mess of split and swollen skin greeted her. The muscles around the man's right eye had bulged and sealed the eye from view completely. The socket itself was a purple, black colour daubed with a smattering of blood, the exact origin of which she could not fathom. There were multiple fissures from whence it might have come; the man's exploded lip, the toothless gaps in his gums, the criss-cross of welts and gashes on his forehead, the widened nostrils of his force-engorged nose.

She felt a prick of pity, but her heart hardened subconsciously as she shifted her focus downwards to the body. It was clear that Purcell had acted on instinct as soon as he hit the floor, withdrawing into an involuntary coil in an effort to curtail the force of the assault. This had not worked, it seemed; every inch of exposed flesh was turned black and blue and red, even despite the pallor that came with death. Purcell's left wrist rested at an unnatural angle, as did his ankle on the same side.

She could only imagine the pain the man must have endured at the hands of his attackers, whoever they were, but these thoughts did nothing to soften her contempt for the dead fisherman.

She had returned to the house of Davin Purcell for one reason and one reason only...

She had not come for revenge for his behaviour on the night they had first met, nor in order to permanently ensure his silence on the matter of her presence in Paris. No, she had come for her clothes. The clothes the dead man currently wore.

The linen shirt, once white and bleached by the sun of far flung shores, was now patchy and pockmarked with scarlet, in some places so thickly saturated that it glistened in the sunlight from the window.

The brocade waistcoat was in a similar state, though it was harder to tell given the darker hue the garment possessed. She lay a hand on the embroidery, traced the gold filigree with tentative fingertips, careful to avoid the copper-tinged strands. She found a few of the buttons to be missing at the front. She felt the itch of moisture in her eyes again, knowing that she would never again wear the vestment, the waistcoat left to her by a great man, and it was all Purcell's doing.

Why had he even put it on in the first place? Had he done it out of spite? In the hope that she would return and see him wearing it as an added insult? Or had he been discontented that he had been prevented his revenge on her and thought it compensation, in part, for the misfortune he had suffered at her hands?

Whatever the reason, she found she detested him for it and she was sure that she would have made this known, had she caught him alive wearing it. It could not even be repaired, she lamented, she might be able to find similar buttons and sew them back on, but the blood stains? Not so easy to remedy. And then of course there was the rip in the left shoulder, a jagged scar of ruptured fabric.

Her brow furrowed and she leant in to further study this fissure. It was not a straight tear, jagged, but, it appeared, decisively so. The whole split was only a mere three inches in stretch and, though the edges felt tacky with blood to the touch, it was probable that this was dealt after death. The precision with which it had been dealt would have been unachievable if the victim had been writhing in agony. She parted the slit with forefinger and thumb, all at once noticing a flash of green cloth that should not have been. Gingerly, she pinched the fabric free of its hiding place.

She recognised it immediately, almost dropping it in her surprise. It was a scarf, a faded summer green and cut from a fine muslin, embellished with an ornate black printed pattern that hid within it decals of birds, beasts and men. It was an item not easily forgotten and she had seen it more than most.

Disbelief clouded her thoughts and for moments she could do nothing but stare at the bandanna. It couldn't be the same one. It just couldn't. She found herself stepping backwards, away from the body, turning the soft fabric over and over in her hands. Fear coiled itself around her spine as her knuckles brushed against a line of stitching. It was clumsily wrought, but secure. Her hands had been shaking when she had sewn it, a task given to her as punishment. She had been crying, she remembered, aching as well; her muscles resisting at the slightest movement.

In that moment, it soon became clear who had murdered Purcell and with this revelation, she supposed the reason why. Purcell had been killed because of her. True, he had not been a fortuitous acquaintance, but her stomach still bubbled with guilt: if she had meant the fisherman dead, she would have killed him herself.

No, this was a message, a warning, a threat and it was meant for her.

Her breath hitched in her throat suddenly, the magnitude of the situation dawning on her. She had assumed he would follow, discover her missing and fly into a blind rage, pursue her at all costs. She knew this, but she had not expected him to have caught up to her so soon. She shouldn't have stayed so long. She should have left after a day or two, results or no.

And she shouldn't have come to Paris; he knew her connections to the place and she had been foolish to think him forgetful of such things.

Something burned in the back of her throat and she all at once felt dizzy. If she had been followed to Purcell's then there was a chance that she had been charted elsewhere around the city. She felt her breath quicken in her throat, thought back on her dream; the hand, the pistol, Gaspard.

She swallowed hard the urge to cry out, tied the scarf hastily around her waist and made for the door. However, just as she was but an inch from the handle, it twisted unaided. She stayed half a second longer, watching the door creep inwards only an inch, before gathering her wits, pivoting on her heel and making for the staircase, devouring the steps within moments. She listened with baited breath at the top stair, flattening herself against the wall so as not to cast a shadow.

'That's strange…Don't remember closing the door…' someone croaked, the male voice thick with shock, maybe even tears. She imagined the heavy set man from the night before, but couldn't be certain.

'And this was how you found him?' another man queried.

'Hasn't moved any?' questioned another.

'No- I mean, I haven't touched him...No, wait. There!'

'What?'

'Footprints. Look!'

'And they weren't there before?'

'No, I'm telling you…and look there! He's been moved!'

Her heart skipped a beat at the metallic whisper of unsheathing swords. She counted two.

'Someone's in the house.'

'Upstairs!'

Without a second's thought she flew across the small space, battled with the catch at the window and threw it open. There were footsteps on the stairs by the time she mounted the window sill, looking back only a second to behold the face of the man she had seen the night before. He stood between two Red Guards who both brandished their swords. One of them called to her to halt and for a moment it looked as if she might obey, leaning back into the room. The second Red Guard repeated the warning, but she was tired of taking notice.

She caught the flash of movement in her peripherals as she offered a smile in mock innocence and threw herself skilfully from la fenêtre. There was a commotion behind her, a cacophony of shouting voices and stampeding feet. She landed with a grunt on the unctuous cobblestones below, fought to her feet and fled the square to desperate cries of 'Murderer!' and 'Stop her!'

In truth, she gave no thoughts to her destination, letting her feet merely carry her away from the danger as fast as they could. She cast a glance over her shoulder once by a tavern whose name she could not glean at her speed and once again at the bakery owned by Monsieur Fortin.

The first time saw the Red Guards still in pursuit, seemingly indefatigable, young and energetic as they were, but at the second glance, they were further behind and this lent an opportunity to escape from their sight completely.

She took a left and another, stealing herself away behind a high wall which she had clamoured up and over with little difficulty, even despite her cumbersome attire. She sank to the ground, beside a barrel that contained dried fish (judging by the smell) and listened attentively for the frantic gaits of her Red Guard hunters.

She calmed herself, settled her breathing and was about to stand when she finally heard the tell-tale signs of confusion beyond the wall. Her would-be captors argued a moment, scuffed their boots in indecision and then decided to give up the chase, proceeding from the alleyway with decidedly calmer paces than before.

She released a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding and rose cautiously from her hiding place.

Surveying her surroundings she found herself in a narrow passage, the end of which opened out onto a familiar shop front. She felt her lips form a smile in relief and she ran subconsciously to the mouth of the passageway. She turned her gaze rightwards, fixed her eyes on her chosen sanctuary and leapt from the backstreet.

She had only taken a few steps when she was halted by a confusing chorus of male voices. They all called out at once for her.

'Licia?'

'Elle?'

'Elle?'

'Richelle?'

She pivoted slowly to face the quartet of bewildered brows and narrowed eyes. She was spared the men's gawking for only a second or two as they turned to each other, no doubt, telepathically attempting to investigate each man's knowledge of her.

When their collective attention was once again upon her, she could do no more than offer a slight nod of the head in greeting and uneasily afford them an almost inaudible, 'Bonjour!'


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: Pris.**

'Did you want to tell me about last night?'

The question was far from unexpected. In fact, the only unexpected thing about it was that it hadn't been asked sooner.

Porthos averted his gaze deliberately, taking a moment to survey the offerings of a small stall selling a slim selection of root vegetables. Athos folded his arms, leant against one of the stall's wooden props that supported a thin and moth-eaten canopy over the head of the vendor. He waited patiently, knowing that pressing the matter with Porthos was going to get him nowhere and something in him worried for the larger musketeer.

Eventually, Porthos offered a forced laugh, 'There's nothing to tell.'

Athos raised an eyebrow, fixed his friend and comrade with searching eyes.

The response was a sudden darkening of Porthos' features and a few steps taken away from the stall. The former Comte De La Ferre pushed away from the stall, unfolded his arms and followed after Porthos. He was forced to halt suddenly when the musketeer pivoted.

'What do you want me to say?' Porthos asked, his tone guarded. The question might have appeared confrontational were it not for the note of guilt and self-efficacy, 'Do you want me to say that you were right? That you shouldn't have trusted me?'

There was a beat of silence. Athos seized it, 'Now…I never said you couldn't be trust-'

Porthos scoffed, gave a shake of his head, attempted a more jovial tone, failed.

'You didn't have to. _No drinking and no gambling. _Remember?'

Athos felt his eyes narrow subconsciously for a moment and he was about to respond when the larger musketeer gave a shake of his head and started off to the left where from D'artagnan and Aramis had just rounded a wall and were closing the distance between them with purpose.

'Look,' Porthos offered, fixing the senior musketeer with a resolute brow, 'I allowed myself to get distracted and I understand that this could have jeopardised the entire assignment. Not to mention place Paris and France in danger. I get it. But, from now on…I'm entirely focused.'

Athos gave a nod, offered Porthos a smile and was about to speak when Aramis and the young Gascon came beside them.

'Did you find anything?' Porthos pried.

'As a matter of fact…' Began Aramis, triumphantly.

He did not have the chance to continue, however, since D'artagnan decided to elaborate instead.

'Turns out that the woman Levesque saw is named Elle and has known Gaspard for years. He even took her and her mother in when she was a child.'

Aramis gave a corroborating nod, 'She apparently stayed last night at the house, but arrived in Paris five days ago and has been staying elsewhere.'

'We don't know where.'

Porthos cracked a suspicious smile, 'How did you find all that out?'

D'artagnan turned an inquisitive gaze side wards and Aramis faltered somewhat under the collective focus of his three comrades. He finally gave a shrug, affected nonchalance, 'We asked.'

Athos was about to asked him to explain further, when his focus was all of a sudden distracted by a flash of movement.

A woman had just darted from a small side street and had her sights set on the house Aramis and D'artagnan had just come from. Athos felt his brow furrow, the woman looked familiar to him, but for moments he couldn't place her. After a second or two of scrutiny, he half recognised the muddied mantle and the blue dress beneath, imagined her sprawled out on the cobblestones before him. He had offered a hand, she accepted, risen to her feet, stooped for the ledger in the space between them.

Realisation dawned and he instinctively spoke her name, calling out to her absent-mindedly.

As it happened, his comrades all had similar notions, directing their attention to the running woman and naming her in an effort to halt her.

* * *

Three distinct names leapt towards her in four distinct voices.

In all honesty, she hadn't intended to stop. She heard 'Licia' first and this summoned memories of the alleyway and the man with the ledger. She had no idea why the man from the passage was calling out to her and she really had no desire to find out. Her curiousity was piqued by the avowal of the name 'Elle' and she slowed her pace, confused at how the only man who should have known her by that name was not present. And finally, she noted the name she had given in L'auberge De Renard and this, it seemed, was enough to halt her completely.

She turned to study the men, affected innocence, pretended not to notice anything amiss about the names.

'Bonjour!' she offered spritely, watching the faces of the men before her. Athos regarded her with curiousity and suspicion, but she supposed this was fairly standard, given the circumstances.

The two men who were unnamed to her stood between Athos and Porthos. The taller of the two was handsome, his soft features and dark eyes were easily charming, the appeal effortlessly enhanced by his kindly, yet inquisitive smile. The boy to the handsome man's left was just that, a boy. Easily, the youngest of the four, he set his brow dutifully. She felt him look her up and down and with this, she got the measure of him. He did not have the pauldron nor the cloak that the others wore and his expression told her that he was eager to prove himself to his friends. There was also a sun-kissed hue to his skin, denoting the fact that he hadn't been in Paris long, possibly having spent his life up until now toiling in fields or on farms.

Lastly, she turned a hesitant gaze to the man who had called her 'Richelle'. Guilt threatened as she took in the glimmer of hostility in his burnt amber orbs and the affirmation of mistrust in his lowered brow. She offered him a genuine smile, but this did not soften his demeanour.

She turned suddenly at the scuffling sounds of boots on cobbles a little way behind her. Incomprehensible shouting rang out around the street and her heart sank. She turned back, made a conscious effort to calm herself and offered the assembled musketeers a parting nod.

'Excuse me, gentlemen, but I really can't stay. Au revoir!'

She darted for her left, but a gloved hand closed itself around her upper arm at exactly the moment that the tirade behind her became understandable with the closing of distance.

'Stop her!'

'Murderer!'

She traced the origin of the hand and found Athos to be its owner. She tried to struggle free, but found his grip unwielding.

'Let go of me!' She tried, imploring eyes finding each man in turn, but lingering longer on Porthos, 'Please! I didn't kill anybody!'

The youngest man raised an eyebrow, rested a nonchalant hand on the hilt of his sword, 'Really? And I suppose you just happened to step in blood on the street.' He nodded to the bottom of her skirts where something had borne a reddish purple stain on the sky blue cotton.

She could not help but to grimace as the musketeers collectively scrutinised the blemish in question. No sooner had they lifted their eyes, did the two men who called her murderer finally reach them. One took her other arm, but his grip was weaker than Athos' and she was able to shrug it off with little difficulty. This earned the Red Guard a silent reprimanding scowl from his intended captive.

'What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?' Athos queried genuinely, calming the situation with his well-spoken, halcyon tone of voice.

'This woman is a murderer!' exclaimed one, jabbing a finger in her general direction.

'We're arresting her for the murder of Monsieur Davin Purcell.' Explained the other.

'Release her so we can take her to the Chatelet!'

She felt a gentle pressure on her arm then and realised that the musketeer was directing her backwards. Reluctantly, she obeyed this silent instruction and soon found herself in the firm yet painless grip of the unnamed musketeer and the equally anonymous boy. She stole a moment to look on Porthos, but he seemed to be actively avoiding her gaze. She wondered if he was still bitter about the night before, or if he were merely wary of impending combat.

Athos side-stepped, coming between her and her Red Guard pursuers.

'I'm afraid that won't be possible, gentlemen. You see, she is currently in our custody. We have questions of our own to ask her.'

She was pleased to see the Red Guards half turn at Athos' well-mannered deterrence and, even though she dreaded the musketeer's imminent interrogation, she had no desire to endure the Red Guards' questions either.

'We'll see what the Cardinal says about this.' One of them seethed as they both pivoted and made their way back in the direction they had come.

She exaggerated a sigh of relief and affected a grateful smile, 'Thank you. I thought they'd never leave. Now, if you'll excuse me…'

She attempted a step away from the grip of the musketeers, but they had no desire to loose her, it seemed. She searched their faces, those of Porthos and Athos as well. There were hints of disbelief, amusement, contempt and duty among them.

She felt defeat and discomfort seize her heart as her new captors led her in the opposite direction of her desired destination.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: Enquête.**

It appeared that the musketeers had seen something she hadn't: they led her dutifully to the door of a terraced house that did not look significant to her in any way. It wasn't until they were but a foot from the portal that a mousey blonde woman swept in from the right and admitted them.

As she was conveyed over the threshold she caught half a glimpse of a bright eyed boy staring up at her. His eyes were brimming with excitement and he even dared to cast a smile in her direction, an expression that she could not help but to reciprocate. This was only a momentary gesture, however, since she was promptly swept into the wanting abode and through to the dining area.

The young prospect and the handsome man restrained her arms, but she did not, at first, realise why.

For moments, there was a quietude around them, broken only by the creaking closure of the door, avowals of gratitude and commendation to the woman and the giggling of the boy as he tried, none too successfully, to hide himself behind a sturdy oak beam of the dining and kitchen area doorway.

'Madame Martin, I don't suppose Etienne keeps any shackles, does he?'

Athos' voice, polite as ever, broke the strained silence that had fallen upon the house. The woman whom Athos had just addressed gave a dutiful nod and made a move to leave.

'That won't be necessary.' The captive woman averred calmly, in the mind that these men, whatever they intended to interrogate her about, could possibly be reasoned with. That was, if her previous impressions of the two that she had already met were correct.

To her surprise, it was Porthos who responded, 'If it's all the same to you…I'd rather be safe than sorry.'

The larger musketeer then gave a nod to Madame Martin and the woman resumed her trajectory, disappearing upstairs. There were a few minutes where no one spoke and only the sounds of the woman's search could be heard.

She took these moments to think on the prick of sadness she had felt at these last words. Though, she didn't blame Porthos for his mistrust and hostility, she felt suddenly dismayed at having lost her best ally of the group. True, she had not expected to see him again, but that had not been the only reason for the spark that, for an instant, had stopped her heart when she once again heard his voice. Her eyes found the floorboards in defeat as she concluded, infallibly so, that she had only herself to blame for his enmity towards her.

Madame Martin returned and pressed a clinking tangle of chains into Athos' palms. He gave a grateful nod and with this, the woman left, sweeping the child along with her. She disappeared, once again, upstairs, the boy trailing behind and protesting the prompt removal.

When the woman and boy were gone, Athos held the shackles out to Porthos who, though hesitating for a brief moment, took them up and fastened them around her wrists which were, in turn held out by her two makeshift gaolers. Porthos, all the while avoided her gaze and, in the end, she gave up trying to catch his eye.

There was then the screeching of wood on flagstone as the young prospective soldier of the king's guard manoeuvred a chair into position behind her. The handsome musketeer then gestured that she should sit. She obeyed in good humour, matching the smile he currently employed for her benefit.

Athos eyed the woman knowingly, 'Any weapons we should know about?'

She answered, promptly and amicably, seeing no reason to antagonise; if she was going to turn this situation to her advantage she would have to convince them she wasn't a threat.

'There's a dagger in my right boot.'

'Aramis.'

She felt her brow furrow at this strange instruction from Athos, perplexed suddenly by the meaning (or lack thereof). However, movement in her peripherals saw the removal of the knife by the handsome musketeer and she concluded simply that it must have been his name.

'Anything else?'

'No, that's all.'

She watched as her captors exchanged agreeable glances, but her focus was held solely by the dagger, currently resting in Aramis' palms.

'Quite a beautiful weapon.' He praised, rolling the blade over gloved fingers, admiring the peculiar sheen to the obsidian handle in the dim light of the room.

'Merci.' She offered, brow creasing in concern and reminiscence, 'But please be careful with it; it's very dear to me.'

Aramis gave a reassuring nod and threaded the dagger into his belt, just aside his sword, 'You have my word.'

At this, she offered a silent expression of gratitude and inwardly began to wonder if she would find a new alliance in Aramis. Her thoughts were broken abruptly by Athos and the question she had been dreading.

'Shall we start with your name?'

She dipped her chin, stole a split second to deliberate and answered in as confident a tone as she could muster, 'Elle.'

She fought back the urge to search Porthos' countenance for any sign that he would give her away. He could do so easily by the mention of the engraving on the beam of L'auberge De Renard's loft room. She wasn't sure she could explain away the initials carved into the wood, convincingly enough. Yes, she might say that she had scratched the letters 'L B' when she was too young (or too poor) to spell properly, that she thought her name was simply 'L' since that is what she heard when she was called. But, even _she_ found that explanation weak.

Or, she might say that she never lived there, that she had come across the letters once when she snuck in to hide from the storm, that her leading him there was nought but a ruse, designed to get him out of the way.

Porthos, it seemed, had already adopted the latter approach and stood with lips unmoving and arms folded as he regarded her with suspicion and intrigue.

She was nevertheless grateful that he elected to remain silent.

'Is that all?' Athos pressed.

She found herself unable to refrain from a teasing remark at this, 'For now.'

There was something of a scoffing sound to her left and she twisted just in time to see the younger man give a shrug, 'It's a start, I suppose.'

She turned back, suddenly startled by a question posed in Porthos' deep voice.

'What are you _really_ doing in Paris?' He asked, the enquiry loaded with the memory of the table in the tavern, the explanation she had given over a shared cup of wine.

The same scene flew unbidden to her own mind's eye and she tried to recall what she had said at that moment. She had offered something vague, something that didn't pose too many questions: _I'm just tying up a few loose ends._

Annoyance threatened as the scene played on; how could Porthos chide her for her vague answer, when he himself actively avoided answering when she asked the same of him. She had half a mind to remind him, but figured that confrontation was likely to do more harm than good, in this instance.

Instead, she fixed him with confidence, 'I came to visit an old friend.'

'One, Monsieur Gaspard Renaud, perhaps?' Aramis surmised.

'You know him?' she pried, looking up at such an angle it made her neck ache.

Aramis shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips, 'Not personally, but his servant was most helpful.'

'Especially when your name came up.' Added the prospect.

She felt her expression darken subconsciously, 'Then why ask me?'

'To make sure you're telling the truth.' Porthos confirmed, fixing her with steady eyes, 'But I suppose the real question is, why would you be _old friends_ with a retired member of the Red Guard, in the first place?'

It was not lost on her, the wording of his query, though, the exact motive behind the sequence, she could not fathom. This irked her and she could maintain the demure charade no longer.

'I am friends with many more who could be considered worse company than a retired Red Guard.' The words fell slowly, softly and were accompanied by a shrug. She thought this a fitting enough statement and one that might have temporarily halted the interrogation, had she not forgotten about the beaten and bloodied body that lay by the hearth in the house by the Seine.

'Murderers, perhaps?'

She grimaced, inwardly reprimanding herself for being so foolish.

Athos' supposition had come so suddenly that it had taken her aback, and for moments she could do nothing but think on Purcell's lifeless form, the colour of his swollen face, the angle of his wrist and ankle, the substantial pool of blood turning black as it dried on the worn stone floor.

She set her brow, clenched the fists in her lap and turned narrowed, defiant eyes to the musketeer who had just spoken.

'I did not murder Purcell.'

'But you were running from the Red Guard.' Reminded Aramis.

'I was at the house when they found me there, but I didn't kill him and I had no intention of doing so.'

'What were you doing there, then?' Porthos contributed.

'I went back to get my clothes.' She paused, breaking the silence with the heavy jingle of the shackles as she gestured to her current attire, 'This dress? Not mine, if you hadn't noticed.'

'What happened to your own clothes?' interjected the prospective musketeer, hurriedly averting his gaze from her bust and the ill-fitting bodice as she spun to address him.

She heaved a weighted sigh and held her eyes closed a moment to order her thoughts, feeling it best if she start at the beginning.

'I came to Paris with the storm five days ago. The long boat I was in was wrecked and I was nearly drowned when Purcell pulled me from the river. He brought me to his home, gave me this dress and offered to let me stay the night. When I refused, he attacked me…'

She let her voice trail off, noticed the tell-tale signs of disapprovement etched into the brows of the assembled men. Aramis shifted uncomfortably beside her and Porthos' expression seemed to have softened a little. She rolled her eyes, continued.

'…I was able to overpower him and managed to bind him before he could prove any further threat. After I felt that he was no longer a danger, I took him up on his offer and stayed in his home for a few days. That was, until last night when I returned to find him free at the behest of a friend who had come looking for him. I fled before he could see me, but his friend caught a glimpse as I was running away…when I went back for my clothes, Purcell was already dead. As it turns out, I wasn't the first person to find him. His man had found him first and, upon returning with the Red Guard and seeing me, accused me of the murder.'

She could almost feel the youngest man's brow furrow as he spoke, 'So you didn't murder him? Even though he attacked you?'

'No. You can check with Purcell's man; he was still alive last night…believe me, if I had meant to kill him, he would have met his end the night he dragged me from the Seine. My intention had been to free him when my business in Paris was concluded.'

She began to grow uneasy as she caught doubtful glances cross between the musketeers.

'Also…' she piped up, breaking through the telepathic exchange, '…there's the small matter of the condition of the body.'

She settled smugly in her chair, preening beneath the coaxing, impatient eyes of her captors. After prolonging the torturous suspense for moments more than was entirely necessary, she offered a conclusion that, in her mind at least, was infallible.

'Purcell was savagely beaten to death by more than one person. I am not capable of inflicting such damage.' There was a moment's pause and, in it, she did her best to appear the epitome of femininity. It appeared to be working and the musketeers, along with their young prospect, softened their stances.

'Go and see for yourself...I am not your murderer.' She finished finally.

'Very well.' Athos stated, eventually, watching as the woman before him seemed to relax a little at this affirmation of her innocence. She began to raise her wrists, no doubt expecting an imminent order for her release. When none came, she eyed him suspiciously.

One side of his mouth twitched in amusement, 'Maybe now you would like to tell us about your relationship with Monsieur Renaud?'

The expression on the woman's countenance could be described as nothing but a scowl and venom encircled each syllable when she finally deigned to answer.

'There's nothing to tell,' she seethed, regarding the well-spoken musketeer with murderous narrowed eyes, 'he's a friend. I've known him for years, ever since I was a child.'

'He took you in after the death of your father, correct?' Aramis probed, angling a pitying glance downwards at the woman in shackles, 'You and your mother?'

'How dare you?' She sneered, suddenly, the tone unexpected. Her focus was held by the floor, but the question was directed at each and every man, 'What does the death of my father have to do with anything? Why is the fact that Gaspard took us in when we needed him so surprising to you?'

The musketeers and D'artagnan watched on, bemused and a little frightened at the sudden change in her demeanour. The barrage of questions made all the more poignant by the abject composure the woman was currently affecting.

'Is he not capable of a heartfelt act of charity towards another human being, just because he was once Red Guard?'

Her concentration was broken by a new voice. A shabbily dressed man stood suddenly in the doorway. She regarded him with a mixture of curiousity and contempt.

'No; he is not capable, because he is Gaspard.'


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: Affrontement**

She learned quickly enough that the new man's name was Etienne Levesque and, judging by the way in which her captors regarded him, he was known to them all. She supposed musketeer and spent a few moments wondering at his unkempt appearance and habitation of this particular house. Comprehension broke over her and she hardened her heart against him. He had been watching Gaspard, spying on him, following his visitors, keeping check on the former Red Guard. She remembered the night she had arrived in Paris, the footsteps behind her as she left, almost indistinguishable against the din of the raging storm. She had thought her follower a ruffian or thief, easily eluding him and putting the pursuer swiftly out of mind. It was only now that she realised who had been shadowing her.

At this revelation, she decided against further co-operation and set her mouth firmly closed as this new man began to interrogate her. The fervour of his questions alarmed her and, though she did her utmost to remain stoic and unmoving, she failed to fight back the subtle widening of her eyes as Levesque mentioned the plans.

'There!' Levesque breathed excitedly at this minute expression of knowledge, 'She knows something about them, I tell you.'

'Only rumours.' She offered, perhaps a little too quickly.

'Strange though,' Levesque continued, attentive eyes trained on her, 'that the rumours should start the morning after you arrive in Paris…the morning after you visit Renaud.'

A laugh escaped her lips and she fixed her new inquisitor with a contemptuous and reprimanding smile, 'I thought you a musketeer, sir, but now I see I was misled; the King's personal guard would never recruit such a dim-witted individual as yourself.'

Levesque took a step towards her, she responded by rising from the chair suddenly, fixing his angered and searching gaze with a self-assured one of her own. The men residing in her peripherals and either side of Levesque instinctively reached for their swords expectantly, but none made the move to draw them.

The tension hung like a smog around them and she believed, for a second, that it might suffocate her. It dissolved at the straightening of Athos behind Levesque and, at his instruction, the musketeers (including her most fervent opponent) filed into the hall beyond the door way.

There was no chance of escape, the musketeers had effectively blocked the only exit. She surveyed her surroundings, looked about for any weapons she might use against her incarcerators. However, as she started towards a large kitchen knife the clink of the shackles reiterated the futility of the endeavour. Her wrists were bound, hindering her dexterity for attack. She could perhaps catch one of them off guard, but would gain no further advantage, before they overpowered and apprehended her. She was outnumbered and lacking in suitable munitions. What's more, they knew this, otherwise they would not have left her alone in the room.

For want of other options, she lowered herself defeated into the chair, trying to listen for hints of her fate in the murmurous exchange in the hall.

She had averted her gaze from the door only a moment, but this was enough, it seemed for someone to approach her unseen. She lifted her eyes suddenly at the bidding of a small noise, something of a whimper or a minute plea for attention. She took in the form of the boy and he employed the same excitable grin as she had seen before. The expression was heart-warming and contagious and, within no time at all, she felt herself matching it.

'Hello.' She greeted warmly, careful to keep her voice low so as not to be heard by the men.

'Bonjour.' Responded the boy, following her lead.

'What's your name?'

'Jacques. What's yours?'

'Elle.' She paused a moment, taking the time to shift focus to the gathered musketeers. Whatever it was they were discussing, they seemed utterly enthralled with it. It seemed to her that there was no imminent danger in speaking with the child.

'Is Etienne your father, Jacques?' She pried, watching the boy give a shake of his head.

'Non, mon père est mort. Etienne is my uncle.'

Her heart went out to the boy. He could have been no older than eight years old and already he had been acquainted with death. She knew that this was not uncommon amongst the peasant masses of Paris, dying young of disease or exhaustion. She had seen such things first hand and she could only hope that whatever had taken Jacques father had been quicker and kinder than that which had stolen her own from her.

'I'm sorry to hear about your father, Jacques…My father died when I was young, as well. You are lucky to have your uncle to look after you.'

Jacques nodded excitedly at this, 'He's a musketeer and someday I will be one too!'

'And I'm sure you will make a brilliant musketeer.' She found herself forgetting her situation, warming to Jacques passionate admiration of Levesque. It was clear that the boy looked up to the man, adored him even.

'I've already started training!' The boy breathed suddenly, holding her focus. She offered her reply in a tone of mock suspicion.

'Oh really?'

'Oui! I am currently undercover. I am pretending to be my uncle's son whilst he spies on a bad man who lives across la rue.'

She found her heart sinking at the statement. Not because Jacques had just insulted Gaspard's character, but rather that Levesque had dragged the child into his devised charade. The vocation of a musketeer was dangerous and fraught with peril. It was no work for a young boy.

She took a breath to steel her composure, felt her smile begin to slip and fought hard to hold it in place.

'Well, you're doing a very good job.' She praised, the statement now tainted with fear and sadness for the boy. She succumbed to her melancholy then and, once again, quietude surrounded her.

This was broken abruptly as Jacques reached out for the irons in her lap. Fretful blue eyes found the doorway in a heartbeat, but the men beyond were still deep in discussion. She turned her attention back to the boy, watching warily as he lifted the chain that bound her hands.

'Are you a bad person?' the boy queried innocently, as only a child can.

She blinked slowly, deliberating on the response. In the end, all she could offer was a shake of her head and a slow, self-preserving answer.

'I don't think so.'

'Are you a murderer?'

'No…' There was an unbidden tone of uncertainty there and she wondered if the child might pick up on it. He appeared not to have realised and instead posed another question.

'Then why are you wearing these?'

She bit her lip, tilted her head to the side, 'Because your uncle and his friends think I have done something wrong. I have to talk to them, answer their questions and, hopefully, in the end, they'll realise that I am innocent.'

'Oh.' Jacques pondered, finally releasing the chains, 'I could talk to my uncle for you.'

Such a selfless offer, from a child no less, almost summoned tears to her eyes.

'Maybe, if I tell him you're innocent, he'll let you go. He'll listen to me! Just you wait and see!'

A fervour descended on the child and he pivoted, took a step towards the musketeers. Without thinking, she reached out, caught his trailing hand, held it gently. The shackles protested the action with a clamour.

'Jacques, wait! You mustn't talk with your uncle on my behalf. We'll both get in trouble if he finds out we've been speaking…but thank you for your most noble offer.'

The boy's face fell and he gave a defeated nod. Her heart ached with the sight of the saddened child and she searched for something comforting to say. In the end she released his hand, lifted his chin gently so that he could see the sincerity in her eyes.

'You know, I hope that someday I have a son who is as honourable, as compassionate and as valiant as you…You will grow up to be a fine gentleman, one day, Jacques, and I am all the better for having met you.'

The words settled comfortably in the space between them. She thought the boy might leave her then, fearful of the prophesised reprimand at the hands of Levesque, but instead, he leapt towards her, draped his arms about her neck.

The child's embrace had been unexpected, so much so that she could not help but to gasp at it. She slid her hands sideways so as not to poke at Jacques' little body with the shackles around her wrists and eventually, the warmth of the child melted away the surprise.

Abruptly, her form was jolted by a fretful shriek from the floor above and the little boy released her with a start.

'Jacques!'

All at once, the eyes of the musketeers were on her, foremost those of Levesque. He stormed towards her, looking all the more frightening in his dishevelled rage. She rose again, ready to defend the child's actions as Jacques was wrenched away from her. Hurried footsteps descended the stairs and the woman appeared in the doorway, the musketeers parting to let her through. Levesque fixed her with rabid, unmoving eyes as he pushed the child swiftly, yet with great care, into the awaiting arms of his mother. She began to fawn over him, checking for bruising or bleeding. All the while, Jacques protested the hostility towards the shackled woman. Neither his mother nor his uncle paid his avowals any heed.

'How dare you lay a hand on him!' Levesque snarled, raising his own hand and striking her across her left cheek.

A sharp, searing pain exploded at her cheekbone and spread steadily across her face. However, she did not cry out at it and, even though the strike had briefly averted her gape, she returned it soon enough, ire and resoluteness swirling in royal blue orbs.

She heard one of the musketeers object to the sudden violent act by calling out for the man, but she couldn't be sure who it was. At any rate, Etienne seemed to pay the warning no notice.

'Your nephew has more to fear from you than I.' she provoked, making a conscious effort to ignore the throbbing in her face, 'What kind of a man would wantonly place his family in danger, all for the sake of glory and recognition?'

Her eyes widened at the bidding of a second raised hand from Levesque. This one did not find its mark, however, and was halted no sooner had it been raised.

Her heart swelled to see the strike restrained by none other than Porthos.

'That's enough.' He warned, his comrades striding forth to stand at his back.

Levesque jerked his arm from Porthos' grasp and swiftly turned his back on his would-be adversary. He addressed Athos instead.

'I think it best that you all leave now.' He instructed, his breathing ragged through wavering self-restraint.

Athos gave a nod.

She took note of the silent command and approached the men who had led her to the house in the first place. She felt a sudden guilt as she passed Jacques and, although Madame Martin had placed the child as far from her line of sight as she possibly could, she still heard the unmistakable sobbing of poor little Jacques. It was not likely that Jacques would be punished for speaking with her, at the very least he might receive a reprimand for having slipped out from beneath his mother's supposedly watchful eye, but her stomach still gurgled with guilt. In truth, she would have it no other way; it was best if all concerned placed the blame at her own feet, but it sat uneasy with her that Levesque had besmirched Gaspard's character and yet had struck her simply out of anger and miscomprehension. That was one thing she could say about Gaspard; even if he was a morally inept former Red Guard soldier, a crook and a money-hungry cheat, he had never (and she was certain would never) lay a hand on her.

Levesque followed them to the door and she was led over the threshold by Porthos' gloved palm on her shoulder.

No sooner had their boots met with the slurry of mud that denoted the street outside, did the door slam shut behind them. She did not miss the disappointment in the eyes of Aramis and again, there was a pinprick of guilt within her.

They removed themselves from the direct vicinity of the house and were silent as they made their way down the street to the left. She cleared her throat, tentatively posed a question, unsure as to whether this would be answered, given the recent transpirations.

'Where are we going now?'

The musketeers exchanged glances, doubtful but concurrent glances.

In the end, it was Aramis who spoke, a note of regret in the words.

'Le Chatelet.'

* * *

Gaspard hadn't exactly expected a warm embrace or a handshake born of camaraderie, but he had expected something more than the curt nod and momentary glance he received upon admittance to the Cardinal's study.

'I trust you have good reason to have come here at such an hour.' Richelieu offered, his eyes unmoving from the parchments lain like a tablecloth on the bureau before him. He took up a quill, dipped it in ink and made a cursive mark on one of them.

Only after returning the quill to a pot situated to his right beside a tapered candle of burgundy wax, did the Cardinal look up, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

'I believe I do.' Gaspard replied, confidence and complacency in equal measures in his tone. He outstretched a gloved finger and tousled the pot of feathers, much to the Cardinal's chagrin.

Richelieu eyed the man before him suspiciously, taking care to note the differences in him since last they met. He looked older and sicklier in both complexion and carriage, though there was a roundness to his physique that hadn't been there before.

It would not have surprised Richelieu to learn that Gaspard Renaud had accustomed himself to retirement and barely left his home nowadays. He would also not have been surprised to find Renaud having secured a little nest egg for himself; notorious for his penchant of the finer things and his allegiance being, more often than not, procured by the fattest purse though it was.

'What is it then?' Pressed the Cardinal after what seemed like an age of silence.

'I have a proposition for you, your eminence.' Gaspard allowed himself a knowing smile, 'You have, no doubt, heard the rumours circulating at present?'

Richelieu rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh in frustration, 'The plans for new and never before seen weaponry that may or may not even exist? What of them?'

'They do exist, your eminence…and I know how to get a hold of them.'

Renaud's smile widened as the Cardinal's eyes turned focused and searching suddenly. He studied Gaspard with renewed interest, but his countenance remained cold and steadfast.

'And yet, here you are, empty handed.' Richelieu stated finally, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes.

'Ah, yes…'

The right side of Richelieu's mouth twitched a little as if he wanted to smile, but his face forbade it.

'Ah, yes indeed.' he chided, inhaling deeply, 'Renaud, I am afraid you waste my time. A former member of the Red Guard you may be, but I cannot entertain you every time you indulge in one of your flights of fancy.'

The Cardinal rounded the desk, placed a hand between Gaspard's shoulder blades and began to lead him towards the chamber door.

'Your eminence, I may not have the plans, but I know the one who does.'

'And where is this 'one'?'

'Safe, but for how long, I couldn't say; the Musketeers may very well be watching my every move.'

To Gaspard's surprise, the Cardinal gave a short laugh at this.

'Why ever would they do that, Renaud?'

'I don't know, your eminence; perhaps they do not trust me.'

'Perish the thought!'

'Indeed!'

The pair shared expressions tainted by mistrust, blemished with uncertainty. The Cardinal continued to lead Renaud to the door and opened it an inch or so. His actions halted then and his brow furrowed as if a thought had just crossed his mind.

'I remember similar conversations with yourself, Renaud that, in hindsight, should have been followed by verification. With that in mind, I think I'd like to meet your man. Bring him to me, at his very earliest convenience, won't you?'

Gaspard gave a nod, but faltered momentarily.

'Yes and no, your eminence.' he stammered, watching the Cardinal's expression darken.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, I can arrange a meeting, but there is no man.'

Richelieu's brow rose in miscomprehension. He took a moment and a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'I'll ask once more, Renaud; what do you mean?'

'I mean…the one with the plans…is a woman.'


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen: Dans.**

She had heard stories about the Chatelet and the place did well to live up to its reputation.

She had imagined it would be cold. It was.

She imagined it would be dimly lit and devoid of anything that might be construed as comfortable. It was.

She imagined the halls echoing with the desperate wailing of the inhabitants whether they be genuinely guilty or merely misjudged. They were.

She followed the gaoler down a series of narrow corridors shrouded in darkness. Porthos and the prospective musketeer (whose name she had since learned was D'artagnan) followed closed behind, preventing any attempt on her part to double back and escape. She had no inclination of doing so, but she knew they had to take precautions.

The dank darkness summoned a chill to her frame and, even though, she had been allowed to keep her cloak, she found herself shivering as the warden's sickly lantern light brought a nigh impenetrable door into view. The man took a moment to survey the cell through the grate in the wood, lined vertically with thick iron bars. Once satisfied that the wanting space was very much unoccupied, the gaoler retrieved a heavy set of keys from a loop at his belt and inserted one into the door's lock. After a wrenching twist and a loud series of clicks the door grated inwards.

The man stood aside and she spared her escorts a last imploring expression before crossing the threshold. To her surprise, Porthos followed her into the wanting space, whilst D'artagnan remained outside, speaking with the warden, though, whether or not this had been planned, she could not say.

She took a moment to survey her surroundings, her gaze resting a while on the high square window that was only a little larger than the tome that Athos had dropped in the alleyway the night before. Much of the opening was taken up by yet another bar; a superfluous measure of security. She couldn't see herself squeezing through the window even in the absence of the iron baton. This was partly because she doubted she would be able to fit, but mostly due to the fact that she had ascended several flights of stairs to reach the room. She was most certain that a deadly drop would greet her should she try to escape that way.

Aside from the window, the only other things that might hold her focus were a barrel which could serve as a surface on or in which to place her personal effects, a small cot bed set with a threadbare blanket and a thin straw mattress and a candle pressed into a small, stone dish. The candle, shortened already by hours of use, stood on the barrel and was not yet lit given the daylight that still filtered in through the window.

After familiarising herself with the room in which she would be staying for the foreseeable future, she turned a searching gaze to Porthos, his disdainful focus conducting its own survey of the chamber. She watched as his eyes scrutinised the cell, settling on each item in turn before finally coming to rest on her.

They shared silence for a moment or two, neither one knowing what, if anything, they should say.

'How long will I be here?' she asked, suddenly taking note of a minute movement in the musketeer before her. She could handle her new accommodations (it was not the first time she had been locked away in such a place), but she found herself unable to bear the thought of Porthos leaving her.

The musketeer heaved a sigh, gave an unknowing shake of his head, 'Athos and Aramis were heading to Purcell's to verify what you said of the body. Even if you didn't kill him, Captain Treville will still want to speak with you…'

Her eyes narrowed momentarily and she found herself suddenly perplexed. She opened her mouth to speak, the word 'why' on the tip of her tongue, but then it dawned on her. The real reason behind their inquiry at Levesque's, the actual motive behind their interest in Gaspard.

When she had come to Paris, she had come with the vaguest of notions. Her goal had been money, her means to get it hinging on something that she alone could offer. It had been Gaspard's idea to spread the rumours, his suggestion that she bide her time and await the highest bidder. However, it seemed as though Gaspard's whispers had spread further afield than he had hoped, somehow reaching the ears of the musketeers. She knew the reason for this now and her countenance darkened as she recalled the culprit's name, the bruising cheekbone aching at the recollection.

She took a breath, swallowed back apprehension, 'Porthos…I want you to know that I have never lied to you.'

She watched his brow furrow. A defiant shake of his head followed.

'What about your name?' he pressed, fixing her with an expression that denoted a belief that he was right, that he could see clear through her tricks.

She offered him a knowing smile, answering calmly, 'I gave the name 'Richelle' in error; I had meant to take the name of 'Raine', one that has no attachment to me, what so ever.'

Porthos eyed her dubiously, bewilderment settling upon him, 'That's still a lie, then.' He countered defensively, 'And what about the carving? What does 'LB' mean if you're name is Richelle?'

'My full name is Louisa Richelle Beauforte.'

She studied Porthos a moment, unable to tell if he had accepted her explanation or not. Even as he spoke, she could not be certain.

'Why are you telling me this now?'

'Because...because, I need you to know that I cannot lie to you, that whatever you ask of me, I shall answer with the truth.'

She paused a moment. Taking a step towards him. He did not withdraw at the action and remained steadfast, though his brow was still creased with doubt.

'And because I need to ask a favour of you.'

He gave a shake of his head jumping to conclusions, 'I can't have you freed…not unti-'

'That is not what I was going to ask.'

'What then?'

'I want you and your friends to protect Gaspard Renaud.'

Disbelief crossed Porthos' features and he responded with an incredulous laugh.

'Why?'

'I fear for his life…' She allowed her voice to trail off and unabashedly employed a tactic she was certain would illustrate her point; she gestured gingerly to her reddened cheek, '…and I cannot trust Levesque to defend him, should the need arise.'

She caught the flash of guilt in the musketeer's burnt amber orbs. He felt responsible for her injury. He was the one who had insisted on the shackles. She might have been able to defend herself, had her hands been free. True it had been Levesque who had struck her, but he could not help but to feel fault in having placed her in such a situation in the first place.

Silence swirled in the damp air around them and it pleased her to think that he wanted to apologise (even though she did not blame him), but could not find the words. Instead, he broke the silence, turning his focus to the reasoning behind her wanting Renaud protected.

'And who would we be protecting him from?'

She faltered, the name coming instantly to her mind, swiftly followed by the face she hoped she would never see again. An irrational terror swept over her, trickling down her spine. For moments she was lost in memories she had hoped never to revisit, the petrifying recollections of what she had already endured and the harrowing visions of what might be still to come.

These thoughts lapped at her consciousness, encircling her like the swells of the Seine. They overtook her thoughts and there she was mired until Porthos turned to her with apprehension and concern suddenly in his brow.

'Louisa?'

His voice grounded her, chased away the haunted reverie. She steeled her resolve, inwardly chiding herself for having been so weak.

'I am being followed by a man: Capitaine Jean Perrault.'

'A soldier?'

'A pirate.'

'How can you be sure he's in Paris?'

She dropped her gaze, slowly moved her bound hands to her hip, worried at the knot there. After a few seconds the scarf fell away at her waist. Porthos had not noticed it before and even had troubled recalling whether it had been present in the tavern, but he nevertheless accepted the garment when she pressed it into his leather clad palms.

'That belongs to him.'

'How can you be-'

'You see that stitch there?' the shackles clinked at her fervent direction, 'That was sewn by my hand...' She paused a moment, hoping that Porthos would take note of the uneven stitching, the few loose loops in the thread, '...My hands were shaking when I stitched it.'

Porthos felt his brow crease at Louisa's explanation. He could imagine the reason behind her shaking hands and ragged darning. He wished he couldn't. The musketeer remembered Levesque's attack and how she had remained silent, defiant, almost as if such an assault had become commonplace to her.

'I found it on Purcell's body. It's a warning, a threat…He wants me to know he's here.'

Something overcame the woman then, a sudden paling of her skin or perhaps a subconscious withdrawal at an unwelcome thought, but whatever it was it weakened her, made her appear abruptly fragile. She was all-at-once devoid of the spirit and the anger that he had so admired in her before and this frightened the musketeer.

He wondered at what he might say to restore her, but could think of nothing. In the end, he settled for another question.

'Why is Perrault following you?'

'He believes I have stolen something from him.'

'The plans.' Porthos concluded, fighting the urge to afford the woman a triumphant nod. The fear had been a trick. The harrowing look in her eye, a ruse. The scarf in his grip, a prop. She was a thief, nothing more. A thief who had picked the wrong target and was about to pay the price for it.

He half turned, expecting an avowal of surprise, of defeat. She answered him with something altogether different.

She lifted her ironclad wrists, placed her palms one atop the other on her stomach.

She offered the musketeer only three words then, but in them Porthos heard notes of fear and injustice, evidence of a fate forced upon her.

And they struck him like musket shots.

'No…his child.'

* * *

_**I hope this little author's note doesn't detract from the impact of this 'dun, dun, dun!' moment, but I had to add one to say thank you to those of you who are following and reviewing this fic. **_

_**Thanks go to: guest, pallysd'artagnan, greenlips24, helensg, beeblegirl and sweetsmile07 for your continued support! Your reviews and follows mean the world to me and may actually result in me finishing this fic. You guys are epic! Don't ever change!**_

_**Thank you so much!**_

_**xx**_


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: Penser**

'She could be lying.'

Porthos had considered this, of course he had. He didn't need Athos to reinforce the doubt in his mind. After all, he barely knew Louisa. Hell, he still couldn't quite believe that was her real name, but something to him still felt wrong about the situation; The woman could have asked for her freedom, could have attempted to barter her way out of the Chatelet, but she hadn't. She had asked for the safety of one man.

'I don't think so.' Porthos countered, fixing the former Comte de la Ferre with an enforcing gaze, 'You weren't there. You didn't see how scared she was.'

D'artagnan shook his head. 'Quite the actress, then.' he theorised, looking to Aramis for agreement, but finding only stoicism in his friend.

The musketeer in question was sitting on a stool by the fireplace, the woman's blade holding his focus as it glinted and glimmered in the firelight. He turned it in his fingers, seemingly oblivious of the ensuing conversation happening at his back.

Eventually, he felt the itch of eyes upon him and rose from his seat, stowed the dagger.

'Maybe Porthos is right.' Aramis offered, coming to stand alongside his friend. Porthos rewarded him with grateful nod, 'I don't know many prisoners who would put the life of another over their own freedom.'

The young Gascon's façade darkened and he looked up, incredulously, from the small table at which he sat. After finding no reason in Porthos and Aramis, he turned his eyes to Athos, 'Are you seriously suggesting, that we put our lives at risk in order to protect a Red Guard?'

There was a moment's silence, during which Athos pushed away from the door frame, ignored the prospective musketeer, turned searching eyes to Porthos.

'Did you ask her about the plans?'

'I did.'

Athos raised silently coaxing eyebrows in response. Aramis and D'artagnan watched the larger musketeer with renewed interest.

'She assures me they're safe; hidden. She'll give us the location as soon as she is certain there's no further threat to Renaud.'

'So she is the one who brought them to Paris, after all?' This question came from Aramis, a strangely certain note in his voice, almost as if he knew the answer but merely wanted verification.

Porthos confirmed this with a nod and thought back on the conversation in le Chatelet, 'She says she wanted to sell them, raise enough money to make a new life for her and the child.'

'A noble enough motive, I suppose.' Aramis pondered, inwardly warming to the incarcerated woman. He both pitied her and admired her; wanting both to embrace her and to fight alongside her. He had seen something of the woman's spirit in their brief encounter, her courage and audacity, her kind-heartedness and rationality.

His offering earned him an incredulous glance from D'artagnan, 'Yes, it is. If you conveniently forget about the number of people who will die if the plans fall into the wrong hands.'

Porthos narrowed his eyes at the young Gascon, squared up to him even though the boy was seated.

'She's not a monster, D'artagnan. She could have gone anywhere with those plans, but she didn't. She came here, to Paris, to France. Because she's not the enemy. She's just trying her best to deal with what has happened to her, something she had no control over.'

The larger musketeer finished with a scowl, leaving the words heavy in the air around them. He wanted his comrades to know why things had happened the way they had, why Louisa had taken the risks that she did.

A sensation akin to uncertainty swept over him then and a question crept unbidden to his mind: why was he so willing to trust her? For all he knew, the woman could be lying, trying to deceive him again. Louisa might just be another made up name; he already knew she was fond of fabricating such things. The unborn child could be just a tool to change his mind about her, nothing more than a prop. Maybe she hoped it would prompt him to have her freed, to remove her from her prison and convey her to the warmer and more comfortable climes of the garrison instead. True, she had said that she wasn't going to ask to be freed, but that didn't mean there was no ulterior motive behind her actual request. Perhaps she had hoped for both: release from le Chatelet and someone to protect her old friend whilst she fled the city.

And why tell all of this to him? Why had she chosen him for an ally? Had they shared something in L'auberge de Renard?

He had loved her for her spirit, her outburst and the unbridled anger behind it. He remembered seeing a spark in her eyes as she reprimanded him and, at the time, he thought it an anger more than he had incited. She had fascinated him and perhaps, there was a chance that he had intrigued her as well.

Then again, maybe the loft had been a test, a trial to see how dim-witted he actually was, how easy he was to deceive. Perhaps the 'truths' she had only recently imparted, were told to him because of the trickery in the tavern. She had spoon-fed him lies, knowing that she could fool him with no great difficulty, knowing that wherever she led him, he would most likely follow.

This notion jarred with him, however, tainted his logic with a glint of hope. She had not known she was to meet him again (he most certainly had not counted on it) so why bother testing him?

Porthos' train of thought was broken by movement on D'artagnan's part. He watched the Gascon take a breath, rise from the table and raise his palms in a half gesture of surrender.

'Look, Porthos…'

The man in question raised a testing eyebrow, awaiting D'artagnan's next insensitive remark.

'…I'm not saying that that should have happened to Louisa - That should never have to happen to anyone - but just think! What if the Cardinal gets hold of the plans? What if these rumours find their way to an enemy of France? This is bigger than one woman, Porthos…and I don't think Louisa thought about that before she came here.'

Aramis tensed, ready to intervene should Porthos take offence to D'artagnan's assessment. In the end, his effort was premature and the static hum of tension dissolved at the behest of Athos' calm instruction.

'At any rate, nothing can be done now.' He gave a nod to the window, beyond which darkness lay over the city, 'We will speak to Treville in the morning and see what he suggests.'

Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Athos' pointed stare and the addition of, 'I'm sure Renaud will be fine for one night.'

The older Musketeer half-turned, reached for the handle, opened the door. Aramis and D'artagnan made to move to the now empty frame, the young Gascon sparing Porthos a nod that was both apologetic and urging. Aramis passed the larger musketeer, patting him on the shoulder as he did so, starting down the corridor beyond the door.

Porthos turned to leave, defeated when he was halted by the closing of the door before him. It did not swing completely closed, but it still left a gap that he was sure was not ample enough for him to leave through.

He pivoted in bemusement, found Athos wearing a scheming smile.

'Now, Porthos, you know I cannot authorise protection detail for any member of the Red Guard, retired or otherwise…'

The larger musketeer narrowed his eyes in miscomprehension. He had half a mind to ask Athos what he was going on about, but was prevented from doing so by his comrade's raised hand.

'However…if you just so happened to find yourself outside Renaud's house, of your own accord and out of uniform…technically, there would be nothing that could be said about it.'

A short laugh escaped Porthos' lips then and he looked upon Athos with a renewed sense of respect and admiration.

He dipped his chin and crossed the threshold when the door had been opened enough for him to pass through.

'Besides, I think Gaspard will be worried about Louisa…someone should tell him where she is.'


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: Tuteur**

Gaspard had returned to the house with some small notion of accomplishment. A meeting with the Cardinal could be the key to finally concluding the business Elle had in Paris. True, he would be sad to see the woman leave once again, but he would rather see her leave Paris cheerfully for the ocean that she so craved, than be responsible for causing her even one jot of sadness by insisting that she stay.

He would fair well enough on his own. He had done so well enough before now.

Gaspard felt a smirk cross his lips in reminiscence as he thought back on that fateful day. He was newly arrived in Paris, ambition and optimism setting his sharp young features aglow. He had been travelling for days and had hoped to get to Paris in time to see the man in charge of the Red Guard. Alas, he had been waylaid a while in a village to the south east: an incident involving a would-be bandit, a lame horse and a violent proposition for the one Gaspard rode at the time. Being young and headstrong, he had defended the already exhausted mare with great fervour. Fortunately, he had triumphed in the altercation, earning himself only a black eye in the process.

After a trying day and his spirits somewhat dampened with the lateness of the hour, he had been grateful for the warmth and hospitality of L'auberge de Renard. He had first met the little girl as she had approached the door to greet him. He had been intrigued by her even then, but it was not until her mother had greeted him, that he became completely enthralled with the little family. He was even welcomed by the master of the establishment, who seemed an upright man who doted unconditionally on his wife and daughter. Gaspard had spent the night in good company.

At some point in the evening, during the hours spent playing the little girl at chess (and losing almost as often as he won) or joking with her father or smiling gratefully at her mother for the poultice she had tenderly applied to his swollen socket, he realised that he would be quite contented with the city of Paris. Even if he should fail in his current objective of joining the Red Guard, he would be glad to remain. Especially if friends like these could be found so easily.

Over the months that followed, he became fast friends with the Beaufortes. They delighted in his triumphs and comforted his miseries and he was ever eager to repay them in kind. He found himself deeply saddened when the day came for his initiation into the folds of the Red Guard and he was given a bed in the compound. They parted ways amicably and he gave them a fat purse of coin in payment for their continued friendship and support. In return, he received a carved wooden chess piece (a dun coloured knight hewn from an oddment of wood) from the child and a small package containing food, wine and a poultice or two from the little girls' parents.

It was years until he next saw them and it had not been a joyous occasion.

Gaspard gave a shake of his head, shrugged off his heavy woollen mantle and put such memories from his mind. He felt his brow crease at the lack of light around him and he could not help but to call out for the two women who should have been present. First, he called for the servant woman, an edge to his tone that denoted disapproval; it was simply unacceptable to come home to darkness. When he heard no reply, he called for Elle, a cold fear constricting his heart when this also remained unanswered.

Panicked, he threw himself at the stairs, checked each upstairs room in turn. A chill void greeted him at each door and he hurriedly sought his old flintlock from the dresser in his bedchamber, almost cursing when he discovered it missing.

Gingerly, he descended the staircase, pausing a moment at the last step, listening for any movements. A shadow shifted in his peripherals, slowly and with no small amount of confidence. To his surprise, it did not attack him, but rather addressed him in a tone of sardonic civility.

'The Captain wishes you join 'im in le salon, Monsieur Renaud.'

'Very well…' He acquiesced, affecting nonchalance, '…conduire sur.'

He half imagined the man (for he was certain that was the gender of the shadow) tilting his head at him in disbelief because, despite this instruction, he made no effort to move.

In the end, Gaspard had no choice but to proceed to the lounge, the unseen man in tow.

There were two things that lifted his spirits as he came upon the designated chamber: one, was that the fire had been lit in the hearth, granting him the ability to finally see and comprehend the situation. And two, that Elle was nowhere to be found.

The shadow conveyed him across the threshold with a short shove and Gaspard took the opportunity to continue this trajectory and stop only when he had reached a spot by the mantelpiece. He scrutinised the scene before him in an instant, his honed mind (albeit a little rusty with the disuse of retirement) gathering significant titbits of information from whence it could.

There was a man reclining upon the chaise to the left hand side of the room; a spry sort of fellow with a muscular frame and a poised demeanour. He was bedecked in faded fabrics and scuffed leathers. A wide brimmed, feathered hat rested on his lap, leaving his head of greasy black waves bare and flattened at the top. He didn't know why, but Gaspard imagined a bandanna tied around his crown, perhaps one of a pale red to match his half-unbuttoned shirt. The man was gloveless and the fingers of his right hand tangled themselves possessively in the silver strands of hair belonging to Gaspard's servant.

She, in turn, was propped up against the leg of the chaise longue, fading in and out of consciousness. No doubt at the behest of the deep gash above her left eyebrow, currently turning her ashen skin a vibrant sticky red.

Gaspard turned to gaze from the woman to his impromptu shadow at the sound of the lounge door creaking shut. He took a further moment to study him and found the man to be of a brutish stature, bald and seemingly unacquainted with the convention of wearing a shirt under one's jacket. He had also, for some reason, seen fit to tie a twisted scarf above his brow, though this appeared superfluous since it did nothing to protect his shining dome. Somewhat unsurprisingly, the pistol Renaud had been searching for swung at the man's belt.

Despite the palpable tension in the room and the discomfort that foretold the imminence of attack, the former Red Guard was pleased that there were not more of these men present. Though the bald man looked a brute, he reckoned he could probably best one of the two before they overpowered him. By then, someone might hear the struggle and go for help.

'Ah! Gaspard, at last!' chuckled the reclining man, addressing the former Red Guard as if they were firm friends.

Gaspard allowed his brow to furrow and he gave a laugh of his own, 'Pardonnez-Moi, but I don't believe we have met, Monsieur…'

'Captain.' The stranger corrected sharply, an involuntary spasm in his hands summoning a groan from the old woman on the floor. This, in turn, beckoned a grimace from Gaspard and a gloating smile from the so called captain.

'Captain…'

'Perrault.'

Renaud blinked slowly, trying to remember if he had heard the name previously, at all. His memory could glean nothing.

'And you're quite right; we've not met before.'

With this, the captain released the woman in his grasp with a short and sharp shove. She hit the floor with a whimper and took the opportunity to make a laboured escape on her elbows and stomach to a corner of the room wherein she might be forgotten if she stayed quiet enough.

Gaspard watched the action apprehensively, relief sweeping over him when Perrault made no move to punish it. Instead, he placed the hat atop his head and stood to face the former Red Guard.

'I am…let's say… a friend of a friend.'

Perrault approached Gaspard, each step gloating and cocksure. He fought hard the urge to step back at the increased proximity.

'Well, in that case, I'll be happy to help you in any way I can.' Renaud offered, ignoring the prickling sensation on the back of his neck, warning him against this foolish tactic.

Perrault responded with a laugh, clapped a hand on Gaspard's shoulder and goaded the man at the door to follow his example. The brute offered a little huff of a laugh, but then regained his composure, fixing Gaspard with dissuading brown orbs.

'Glad to hear it, Gaspard! I'm sure you'll be most helpful.'

'Bien sur. What is it you need? A room for the night? Some supper?' He fought back a grimace, faltering under the captain's expectant gaze, 'You might have to wait a while for my servant to recover herself, but I'm sure-'

He was abruptly interrupted by the feeling of chill metal pressed against his neck. His eyes flicked sideways, taking in the sudden murderous tint to Perrault's features. His jovial smirk had vanished and there was now a furious glint in his dark eyes.

'I grow impatient, so I'll ask outright…where is she?'

'Who?'

'Don't test me.'

Gaspard swallowed, the edged of the blade grating as he did so. He set his brow, gave an instinctive shake of his head, felt the tiniest scratch open up at his throat.

'I don't know where she is. She said she was leaving Paris.'

This was not the right answer it seemed and Gaspard found himself suddenly thrust against the bookcase, Perrault's hand curling around his windpipe. His own hands grasped at the claw, but his frantic attempts at self-preservation seemed to do nothing but further annoy his attacker.

'Don't think me ignorant, Monsieur Renaud. I know all about you.' Perrault paused a moment at a choked protestation from Gaspard. He rewarded him with the sudden constriction of his fingers. 'I hope you don't think that I would be so indolent as to not interrogate your poor unfortunate orphan about every little detail of her past.'

Gaspard could feel his pulse behind his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness. His mind was reeling. He still couldn't fully understand this man. Elle had never mentioned a Capitaine Perrault before and, even though he had not seen her in years, he was sure she would not have kept such a thing as this 'interrogation' from him. His stomach knotted as the full implications of the word suddenly dawned on him. Bile rose in his constricted throat and he gurgled in disgust at the man before him.

_Please no…not her…the poor girl…_

'She didn't get it at first, but after a while she learned her lesson. You see, I'm a very good teach-'

The captain suddenly buckled with a grunt, releasing the former Red Guard, winded by the sudden knee in his crotch. Gaspard bent double too, gulping in rapid mouthfuls of air in an attempt to recover himself before the brute reached him. He fought to his feet and wavered on the spot for a moment before gathering his senses and lunging for the Captain on the floor. He was met with a flurry of fists, but managed to close his own fingers around Perrault's throat.

Gaspard was so bent on choking the life from Capitaine Perrault that he had quite forgotten the bald man by the door. In fact, his memory was only jogged when a sound like thunder echoed around the chamber and a tiny molten pellet parted the skin at his back and embedded itself in his torso. His hands fell away from the captain's throat and he sat back on his haunches. There was a warmth at his back and this eked its way across his skin, saturating his shirt with each slowing beat of his heart.

Perrault scrambled backwards, his hands testing the flesh at his neck for bruises. He was half aware of Gaspard's attempt at a contemptuous scowl in his direction, but in a mind to add insult to injury, he fixed his gaze elsewhere and stood.

After a second or two more, Gaspard spluttered his last breath and fell forwards, where the blood from his fatal wound surmounted his sides and saturated the plush fibres beneath him.

Perrault heaved a sigh in frustration, reached out and plucked the pistol from his comrade's meaty palm.

'What did you go and do that for?' he chided bitterly, casting the flintlock to the floor in a rage.

The brute opened his mouth to speak, but Perrault had other ideas. He took a breath, brought his forefingers up to his temples and closed his eyes.

'I grow weary of this…' He avowed, trying to think on something else he might do now that Gaspard was no longer of any use to him.

His eyes snapped open, the hands flew from his head and he all-at-once pivoted, turning narrowed eyes and a triumphant smile to the old woman in the corner.

She cowered beneath his gaze and he steadily approached her, his smile widening subconsciously.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Courtier.**

Louisa awoke easily from her fretful slumber at the sudden clatter and clink of the lock. She was on her feet in an instant, her back against the wall opposite the door, the candle within easy reach of her still bound hands. She wagered that the small source of cloying light wouldn't inflict much harm, but a well-placed strike with it might surprise an attacker just long enough for her to gain the upper hand. That was, of course, until the gaoler heard and came to her reprimand.

In truth, she hadn't expected an attacker at all, half-hoping that Porthos might return to her. She had thought about his return, wondered at the news he would bring. Perhaps he might tell her she had been freed or, at the very least, that the Musketeers had agreed to protect Gaspard. Perhaps it wouldn't be Porthos, but rather one of his friends. Perhaps the well-spoken musketeer, coming to her in a gesture of duty. Or maybe the young farm hand, wishing to prove himself and keen to appear competent. If it was the handsome musketeer, with all his charm and kindness, she would ask him unashamedly for her dagger back. She would express no interest in what he had come to tell her, so long as she could feel the silver and black stone knife pressed in her palm again.

The actuality surprised her. In place of the Musketeers she had expected, a man of considerable years stood before her and, despite his age, she took him to be cunning and quick. His attentive eyes and his poised but guarded stance told her that he was neither dim-witted nor infirm. He entered the cell with an air of purpose, instructing the warden to close the door behind him.

He half-quirked a smile at her bemusement, studied her from his spot by the door. She took the moment to do the same.

He possessed a stately and lean frame and was bedecked all in black leather. He even wore a small skullcap fashioned from the same material. His cloak appeared heavy and sweeping, it's burgundy lining the only example of colour in the entire ensemble. Though not an overly tall man, she took him to hold some position of power by the way he bore himself and the gilded cross, hanging from a long chain around his neck, suggested a religious affinity.

'Bonjour Mademoiselle. Please, allow me to introduce myself…Cardinal Armande Richelieu, at your service.'

His tone was civil, but his last three words grated with Louisa. It somehow seemed wrong that they should have come from him and there was no gesture to reinforce them; no sweeping bow nor dip of the chin. The Cardinal remained still, his attentive gaze searching her for any clues as to what she might do next.

Louisa gave a dubious nod of her head, but made no effort to speak. After a few seconds of patient expectancy, Richelieu gave short laugh.

'I can see you are not the talkative type.'

At this, the Cardinal cocked his head to the side slightly. Louisa instinctively called the action 'bird-like', the comparison coming easily to her mind in view of the man's piercing eyes and hooked nose.

'Luckily, I am in no need of an introduction from yourself, Mademoiselle Beauforte.'

Louisa was careful not to react at the surprise that the Cardinal apparently knew who she was. She thought back on the rumours, on Gaspard's avowed intention to quicker conclude her business in Paris. Given that the Red Guard were, in effect, the Cardinal's personal guard it seemed completely plausible for Gaspard to have spoken to Richelieu on the matter.

'Or do you prefer I call you Elle?'

Louisa responded with a slight shake of her head, replying in a somewhat guarded tone, 'I take it then, that you have spoken with Gaspard?'

'I have…'

The Cardinal allowed his voice to trail off as he regarded the cell around them with amusement, 'Although, this isn't exactly what I expected, when he said that you were safe.'

Louisa gave something of a scoff, raised bounds hands to gesture around her.

'Well this…this is a recent development.' She felt her brow furrow then and hastily added, 'So recent, in fact, that Gaspard does not know I am here...'

The Cardinal raised an eyebrow, a devious grin twitching at his thin lips, 'He assured me you were an intelligent woman…Was I misled?'

This question grated and all-at-once summoned unbidden conspiracies to her mind. These encircled her thoughts as she tried to fathom how much danger she was actually in. The question had been too close for comfort, too similar to what she had asked of Etienne. Had Levesque spoken to Richelieu and told him of their conversation? If so, why? Surely his disdain for all things redguard would have prevented such an action. A coincidence then? Or perhaps news learned from the musketeers whilst in their company at the palace?

Either way, the phrasing jarred, but still she maintained her composure, only grimacing inwardly before fixing Richelieu with a smile to rival his own.

'I'll warn you to be careful, your eminence; insulting me will get you no further in this transaction.'

At this, the cardinal's smile faded and his eyes turned sharp and serious. He outstretched a hand, pointed it at her and responded with no small amount of venom.

'And defying me will get _you _no further.'

The retort was neither loud nor long-lived, but it sent a shiver down Louisa's spine. This man was powerful and something in her gut told her to tread carefully. She found herself calculating, thinking, supposing; instinct advised her that she did not want to know what it felt like to be at his mercy.

The Cardinal seized the silence, gloating bitter, 'Oh, I'm sorry...did you think you had the upper hand here?'

He paused a moment, fixing her with a certain and steadfast gaze before finally affording her only a few words, 'You were mistaken.'

She found herself tensing at the darkness in the Cardinal's features, the malice in his voice.

Her fingers itched for the candle.

A few seconds passed, before Richelieu started again, his demeanour changing slightly, the darkness withdrawing yet kept at the edge of his tone.

'Now...I came here to talk to you, to give Gaspard the benefit of the doubt in the interest of camaraderie. I would rather we continue with some small degree of civility, but there are other ways in which we might proceed; bearing in mind, of course that you are newly arrived in Paris with very few people who know you are here...You are not likely to be missed…'

Louisa maintained her composure, fixed Richelieu with knowing eyes, 'Gaspard would never-'

'Well, as much as he would like to think himself a clever man, he is easily fooled.' Richelieu interrupted, 'There are a great many things I might tell him that would explain away your disappearance.'

For a moment, she was taken aback at his answer certain that, despite the Cardinal's avowals to the contrary, Gaspard would indeed come looking for her should she fail to return to him. She would like to think he loved her enough that he wouldn't just take the Cardinal's word on the matter. But at the same time, he knew her, truly understood her. He knew that she would not be happy in Paris for any length of time. He may think her cruel for leaving without saying goodbye, but he wouldn't think it particularly out of sorts...

Another face came to mind then and she clutched desperately at the small ember of hope.

'The Musketeers.' She stated triumphantly, watching as the Cardinal tilted his head to one side in a silent query, 'They know where I am _and_ why I am in Paris. They'll come looking for me.'

'No, they won't. They'll come looking for the plans. They don't care about you, Mademoiselle; they were, no doubt, assigned to track the plans down as soon as the rumours reached the Garrison. A well placed comment in the presence of his majesty and Treville would assail any concerns for your absence.'

Louisa's gaze found the floor subconsciously. She could see the truth in Richelieu's words and, as much as they stung, she was not so foolish as to believe there was much more than duty guiding Porthos and his friends. Yes, Porthos might think on her, knowing what he now knew. He might seek her out to verify her wellbeing, but would think on her no more if he found her disappeared. She was nothing to him and she could expect no more than that.

She relented with a sigh, her shoulders sinking in defeat.

'So how do you suggest we proceed?' she asked finally, the question setting Richelieu's façade aglow in victory.

'I was told you wanted payment for these plans….'

Louisa gave a nod, ignoring the twinge of onus in her gut.

'Very well. In that case, I propose to have you freed at once. You will then deliver the plans to me by tomorrow evening at th-'

'Can't be done.' She interrupted matter-of-factly. She took a moment to watch a cloud of fury descend on Richelieu before elaborating.

'The plans are not in Paris. They are at least two day's ride from here.' Louisa allowed herself a small moment of smugness, before remembering her company and adding quickly, 'I will bring them to you, in exchange for my freedom and payment, but I will need more time to do so.'

The Cardinal deliberated for a few seconds, scrutinising the woman at the wall. He wondered of her audacity, whether she would indeed betray their arrangement given half the chance. The transaction seemed well enough; the woman wanted money and he had money to give. She might think to take the plans to another interested party, but no one but himself could give her the amount of coin he could. It stood to reason then, that she would be best off in honouring their agreement.

But even at this conclusion, he could not help but to regard her with unease. Eventually, he gave a nod.

'Very well, you may have your extra time…on one condition…'


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Indice.**

Athos had been roused from sleep an hour or so before dawn by a frantic peasant lad with a message from Porthos.

As soon as he had sent word to the coroner and secured a detail of three fellow musketeers to accompany him - without Aramis and D'artagnan among them - Athos had set off on foot for the house belonging to the late Gaspard Renaud.

Although the door had been left open, he found the foyer empty of anyone he might speak to. He instructed his followers to sweep the upstairs rooms and, once they were dutifully ascending the staircase, eyelids still heavy with sleep, he sought out the lounge.

It was there that he found Porthos, crouching by the chaise and holding a cloth to the head of a woman Athos did not know. He deduced she was Gaspard's servant and fought back a grimace as he neared to look upon her.

She stared upwards with glassy eyes, which she blinked groggily with the effort of staying awake at Porthos' instruction. The skin around her eyes was swollen, but still permitted the movement of her lids. There was a split in her top lip and this dripped blood onto her teeth giving the already pale and withered woman a grotesque quality to her façade.

She was startled at Athos' approach and gave a feeble moan, shifting awkwardly away from him, her stiff muscles resisting painfully.

Porthos comforted her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder and removing the cloth at her brow, momentarily. This revealed a yawning and bloody laceration above her left eye. Athos found himself suddenly surprised that the woman was still alive at all.

'Porthos?' he ventured, waiting for his friend and colleague to turn to him.

'I was too late.' Came the reply, an edge of self-efficacy and frustration in Porthos' voice. The larger musketeer gave fleeting nod over his right shoulder towards the fireplace.

Athos followed his instruction and found a body by the bookcase. He fixed his gaze upon the unmoving man, only half aware of Porthos moving to stand at his shoulder. The pair approached it in silent synchrony, careful to avoid the area of rug now stained crimson.

'Single shot wound to the back.' Porthos began, nodding to the flintlock on the floor, 'Shot with his own weapon, by the look of it.'

Athos nodded in agreement, studying the weapon from his current vantage point. He then knelt, placed a hand on Gaspard's nearest shoulder and pushed away. A dull clink furrowed the musketeers' brows as something heavy and metal fell to the carpet beneath the body. Without instruction, Porthos stooped, reached out and plucked it from the floor. Athos returned the corpse to its original position and for moments, the pair stared transfixed at the object.

In Porthos' hand dangled a necklace, an intricate black and white enamel pendant mounted in old gold and strung with a black leather cord. The pendant itself now sported a red smear, but Porthos was quick to wipe this away with his thumb. The dwindling firelight in the hearth leant an amber sheen to the pendant's polished façade which, though intricately detailed, was smooth to the touch. Upon the oval stone, and yet at the same time within it, was an image etched in a pure bone white; a half-empty hourglass enwrapped by a serpent whose scales fell away about half way down its body, turning its tail to bone.

For moments the musketeers merely gazed at the strange piece of jewellery, trying to fathom the meaning behind the emblem. Porthos held the piece closer to the hearth so as to better study it, but as he did so the old woman on the chaise stirred and spoke.

'For her…' she rasped, drawing the attention of both musketeers.

'Who?' he queried, though something heavy in his gut had already answered this question. He was abruptly reminded of the scarf Louisa had taken from Purcell's body, the stark and carefully placed warning from Perrault. The necklace in his grasp was another clue, another threat from the same man and intended for the same woman. He was sure of it.

'Elle…little Elle…' With this, she reached out shakily for the stone as if it were but an arm's length from her, '…he said…it…was for her…that she'd know…what…it meant…'

'Who said this?' Athos asked suddenly, astonished when it was Porthos who answered in place of the wounded woman.

'Perrault.'

The former Comte met his comrade's gaze knowingly, recognising the name from Porthos' account of his Chatelet conversation with Louisa. He then watched as the larger musketeer pocketed the necklace and strode for the door.

'Where are you going?'

'To Le Chatelet. I have to warn her.'

'Porthos, wait.'

There was a slightly chiding tone behind such a simple instruction and this halted the musketeer in question, his shoulders sinking as he turned.

'You're exhausted. Go back to the Garrison. Get some sleep.'

'But what abou-'

'She's not going anywhere; she'll still be there when you wake.'

Porthos gave a comprehending nod, Athos' reasoning sound and slowly sinking in. He could feel the fatigue of which the former Comte spoke; it was there in the itching of his eyes and the hum of the headache behind them.

And so, he obeyed Athos' instruction, spared one last look at the body that was evidence of his broken promise and left the house. He walked with a heavy mind, wondering how Louisa was going to react at the news of Gaspard's death, whether they would ever know the location of the plans now that they had failed to protect the Red Guard. A sour thought then crossed his mind; what would happen to the woman if she failed to give them the information they needed. Would Treville go to the King? Would an execution be ordered? A preventative effort to keep Paris safe? After all, if she was the only one who knew the location of the plans, doing away with her would ensure the safety of France. True, this would leave the King with no new toys to play with, no new weapons to wave gloatingly in front of his enemies, but France would be safe and that would be a good enough conclusion. Who would bat an eyelid at the collateral damage of just one woman?

Porthos was stirred from his thoughts at a sudden impact on his shoulder. He lifted his eyes and disdainfully offered a groan at the sight of Levesque. He did not know whether the collision had been purpose wrought or an accident, but either way the hidden musketeer opened his mouth and gave a nod in the direction of the house behind Porthos.

'What happened?' he asked, looking beyond the larger musketeer at the bustle and commotion surrounding Gaspard's house.

At first, Porthos was loathe to answer and he made a move to pass the smaller man, but the question was nevertheless answered subconsciously. He thought on the body and the old woman, the souvenir and its intended recipient, the man before him and the woman he had struck. Porthos almost smiled as a particularly venomous thought crossed his mind.

'You've been replaced…' He began, savouring Levesque's miscomprehension, 'by the coroner and the gravedigger.'

With this, Porthos pushed past Etienne, ignored the hand on his shoulder that was a final attempt to halt him and made his way through the massing throng of excited street inhabitants. They had, no doubt, been roused by the gun shot that killed Renaud and – now that there was an authoritative presence ensuring their safety – had come to stare in morbid curiosity, to glimpse the death and the gore that often came with the thunder of the pistol.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Défunt.**

The Cardinal's 'one condition' had been an escort of two Red Guard soldiers and it was just Louisa's luck that they should be keen and conscientious. She regarded them with chagrin as they walked one at either side of her, all-the-while watching every move she made from their peripherals. They had tried to glean her plan of action, asked her where it was they were heading to, but Louisa had met each inquiry with silence. If this was to be the way of things then she had conditions of her own, the utmost being her prerogative to remain silent.

At first she had taken pleasure in their bewilderment, summoning annoyance to their features with every indecisive footstep she took, each time she led them down an alleyway only to turn around and lead them back out again. She had managed to keep this up for nearly an hour when the smaller lighter haired man growled, gripped her arm and threatened to report to the Cardinal if she did not cease in her little game. She had managed to shrug him off with ease, fixing him with a murderous glare that said he ought not to have threatened her.

She made a move for the knife in her boot then, only to realise that it was not in its hiding place. Snippets of the scene at Levesque's invaded her mind and she all-at-once remembered the way her dark dagger had settled gracefully in Aramis' palms.

Defeated, she had grumbled an acquiesce and set a coarse for the man she wanted to see and the questions she wanted answered. Though she was sure that Porthos was a good man and likely to keep his promise of a favour, she could not be sure that he would have been permitted to protect the former Red Guard; Athos may have forbade it, Aramis and D'artagnan could have likewise dissuaded him.

It was a cold and jagged fear that wrapped itself around her when she finally did reach Gaspard's house. She suddenly found herself unable to breathe at the sight of chaos and commotion surrounding la maison. A large crowd had gathered outside and were spouting insensitive remarks and howling to see the body.

She forced herself into the throng, her passage hindered by the peasant fervour; hands gripped her shoulders and tried to force her back, selfish footfall caught her skirt and petticoat, halting her progression on several occasions. Eventually though, she clawed herself to the forefront of the throng and immediately wished she hadn't.

A cart was waiting by the porch, a skinny young lad and a portly man wearing grubby white stood by it. She knew what the cart meant and who the men would be. She steadied herself on the arm of a musketeer who was trying to keep the crowd back. He regarded her curiously, but the muscles in her neck would not allow her to meet his gaze.

Sudden movement from the doorway settled a murmuring hush upon the crowd. Two musketeers carried a shrouded weight between them, the body heavy and hidden, the white cloth sporting a single blemish of crimson.

She wanted to tear her gaze away, but she found she could not. She wanted to turn and run, but her muscles forbade it. She wanted to put the image from her mind and pretend she had never seen the body that could only have been Gaspard, but her mind's eye was already thinking on the dream she had had in that very house. She recalled the pistol in Perrault's grasp, watched the pellet burying itself in her saviour's chest, almost choked on the despair that the murder summoned.

She was granted a moment's reprieve from her thoughts as further movement on the porch shifted her focus. Two more men appeared in the doorway, stood a second to survey the body as it was arranged on the paupers' carriage. One appeared regretful but not personally so, the other possessed a more calculating demeanour, perhaps turning his thoughts to what he might do now that the man he had been assigned to spy on was currently unmoving beneath his shroud.

Before she could stop herself she lunged forwards, halted by the musketeer's arm that had only a moment ago given her support. She looked beyond him, ignored his instructions that she should keep back, honed her focus on the one man at the scene who might listen to her.

'Athos!' She called, watching the man's gaze lift, turn and scour the crowd for the origin of the cry. There was a catch in her throat that had hindered the volume. She cleared her throat to dispel it, tried again. 'Athos!'

She felt her heart splutter when the musketeer's eyes finally fell on her and for an instant they held surprise, disbelief, suspicion. She was acutely aware that instead of helping her, Athos might order her arrest and for a moment that felt like an age, he held her gaze and afforded no clue as to his intentions. Suddenly, his focus lifted. She watched him give a nod and panic descended, muscles tensed ready to make an escape. She felt the panic lift and the pressure against her lessen as the human barrier bent his elbow, raised his arm and let her pass.

There was no time to afford the man any gratitude; Even though the lumpen mass on the cart could be none other than Gaspard Renaud and the shroud hiding his face could mean none other than death itself, she could not help but to feel that if she spared the musketeer a moment, hindered her progression even an instant, she might lose the one vital trice that may see her close friend and guardian restored to life again.

She was at the cart in an instant. Shaking yet determined fingers reached upwards for the cloth, peeled it downwards in a sort of swift reverence. She knew what she would find beneath it, but there was no preparing her for the sight of Gaspard's unmoving, colourless face. The only consolation was that his countenance was unmarred. She recalled the swollen and bloody face of the fisherman and was at least grateful that Renaud had suffered less than he. There was only a slight reddening of the flesh at his neck that unsteadied her.

Someone in her vicinity cleared their throat to hurry her along and she lifted her gaze to find the stout man raising his eyebrows at her expectantly. She was too numb to protest and gently replaced the cloth, pausing a moment as the hem reached Gaspard's chin. She leaned in slowly, planted a tender kiss on his frozen forehead and restored the shroud to its original position.

The man gave a nod and the skinny lad obediently took up the front of the cart. She watch them turn and rattle away, the abrasive itch of moisture in her eyes.

'Au revoir, vieilami…' she breathed, '…aller avec mon amour durable et de gratitude éternelle.'

The street all at once grew quieter then, the crowd dispersing with nothing further to hold their collective gaze.

'I am sorry for your loss.'

The sentiment seemed genuine, wrought in familiar halcyon tones. She turned with a nod, made a vague swipe at dispelling the tears and steadied herself with a breath.

'Where's Porthos?' she ventured, 'Was he here?'

Athos opened his mouth to speak but another voice cut him off.

'Athos! I thought you said she was at le Chatelet!' The statement was gruff, accusing, gloating. There was no mistaking the man it belonged to.

The sound of his voice dried her eyes and sobered her mind. The images of her dear departed Gaspard were suddenly replaced by a tableau of daggers at Levesque's throat, swords in his gullet and pellets in his brow. She squared up to him, fixing him defiantly with no small amount of malice in her darkening orbs.

'She was.' Athos admitted.

'Then we should return her there!'

Perhaps it had been his intonation or perhaps she had caught a flash of movement as he reached for his sword.

Whatever it was, it had summoned an instinctive reaction. Before she knew it, there was a sword in the grip of her right hand, the point humming at Levesque's sternum. She was only half aware of Athos' shadow in her peripherals and she could not fathom whether he was bemused at the fact she had so swiftly relieved him of the blade at his belt or pleased with her intended reprimand of the hidden musketeer.

Levesque, though obviously startled by the woman's actions, tightened the grip on his own sword. However, before he could draw it more than an inch, she advanced. Levesque stumble backwards to avoid the sting of the foil piercing his chest. He caught his heel, tumble to the ground with his head only a few inches from the porch step. He stared up at her with calculating eyes, gave a laugh.

This unnerved her; she had expected to see panic etched into his features, not buoyancy.

'She thinks she can use a sword now.'

She flicked her wrist deftly, punished the musketeer's disparaging tone with an exemplary nick on his chin. A smile twitched at her lips as the man on the door step grimaced, wince and dabbed at the new wound with a tentative palm. She permitted the movement and returned the sword tip to Levesque's torso. She wanted him to test the shape and depth of the incision, wanted him to know that she could indeed handle a sword, that any further scornful remarks would be chastised precisely and promptly.

'Did Gaspard teach you that?'

She fought back her fury, quarrelled with the smog of incense suddenly behind her eyes.

'How dare you?' she found herself growling through gritted teeth.

The man at her feet winced then as she applied a slow and steady pressure on the sword.

'Elle...' Athos coaxed, suddenly appearing at her right shoulder. He slowly outstretched an arm, curled his fingers around her own on the hilt. Her gaze remained unwavering, the muscles in her arm loathe to relax.

'I say…' Levesque began, his breath hitching in his throat as the tiniest spot of blood eked out from beneath the weapon, '…good riddance to him…once less Red Guard dog to-'

The conclusion to the sentence was lost to an agonised cry from the hidden musketeer. The spot of blood grew as she leant harder on the hilt, her actions dictated by anguish and wrath. If she could not have Gaspard's murderer (for she was certain she knew who it was who had killed him) then she would settle for this cretin.

'Louisa…'Athos began again, a gently chiding quality weaving around her name, '…that's enough.'

She felt his fingers tighten around hers, the muscles in his arm twitch in an effort to prevent any further harm coming to his comrade.

'Come with me. Porthos and I have something to show you.'

His words were calm and reassuring and she was tired and mournful. Such a combination eventually bid her grip on the sword loosen.

She relented, allowing Athos to rethread the blade into its sheath, and turned, her focus heavy with lassitude and longing for this all to have been some terrible nightmare from which she might wake to see Gaspard's reassuring smile. She walked a little way off, pushing past her escorts who had been watching the events pass incredulously. She shot them a venomous scowl that said that she would not hesitate to strike them if they should continue to follow her and was glad to see the essence of apprehension in their brows.

Before he caught up with Louisa, Athos spared a moment to offer a hand to his fallen comrade. Levesque took it and rose to his feet. He lifted the hem of his shirt as soon as Athos had loosed him and ran a tender finger over the small puncture wound. It was nothing much and would heal soon enough, he was sure, but the damage to his ego was going to be harder to remedy.

'That woman is dangerous!' he hissed, setting his gaze and illustrating his meaning with a jabbing finger in her direction, 'I'll see to it that she is-'

Once again, his sentence was interrupted by a wince and he dropped his gaze to find Athos' gloved palm flat against his chest.

'I think it best that you not return to the Garrison. I'm sure that the Captain would agree that you are no longer fit for duty and should, hereby, be suspended from the ranks of the musketeers until such a time as he sees fit.'

'You can't do that! You're not the Captain! '

'That may be so, but when you threaten and provoke an interest of his, upon whom the safety of France depends, no less, then I am certain he would agree with me. What's more, if you resist his decision, I am also sure that he would not hesitate in making such a suspension permanent.'

Athos watched as the man before him gave a shake of his head in submission and pushed past him, an angered stride conveying him to his house.

Once he was certain that Levesque would be no further hindrance, Athos came alongside Louisa and the pair began a solemn and silent trudge towards the Garrison.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Venin**

Composure threatened to leave Louisa when the door was opened by a bleary-eyed Porthos.

In the moment she saw him, barefooted and wearing only his breeches, she wanted nothing more than to fold herself into his arms and try to forget that she had just lost her closest friend and mentor. She wanted him to understand that she did not blame him, that for some reason her only concern had been that he had not met Perrault and suffered the same fate. She wanted him to be silent and not interrogate her about the plans, about her well-being, about her intentions now that Perrault had murdered yet another man. And she wanted to cry, to succumb to the nigh overwhelming feeling of despair and foreboding that had crept over her as soon as she removed the shroud from the body on the cart.

Instead, she damned the deluge in her eyes with sheer resolve and entered the room followed by Athos.

'Louisa?' Porthos queried, his probing expression shifting sideways to the former Comte, in search of answers.

Athos closed the door and offered the slightest shake of his head.

'Are you alright? How did you escape Le Chatelet?' The larger musketeer began, a noticeable crease in his brow as a thought crossed his mind and he turned to his comrade, 'Does she know?'

Athos gave a nod in response, but he had no time to speak before Louisa's voice summoned Porthos' attention.

'She does.'

'Louisa, I am sorry; I should have been there sooner. I could have saved him.'

'No. No you couldn't have.' With a breath, the woman crossed the small chamber, cast her gaze to the waking Garrison courtyard below, 'Perrault would have killed you too, just for being in the way. In truth, I am glad that you were not there to face him.'

Their eyes met unintentionally and for a second or two there was nothing but the muffled sounds of musketeers and stable boys from beyond the casement.

Ultimately, Athos cleared his throat and broke the quietude that had descended, drawing the pair's focus with his well-spoken tone and words of reason and logic.

'How _did_ you escape Le Chatelet?'

'I didn't...I was released.'

The musketeers shared a fleeting glance, the next question on both their lips.

'By who?'

This collective expression unnerved Louisa and she offered the answer dubiously, trying to fathom the reason behind such apprehensive façades.

'Cardinal Richelieu.'

The answer seemed to lay a heavy weight upon the two men before her, their shoulders sinking in defeat.

'So he knows about the plans…' Porthos surmised, anger curling around the words.

'Of course he knows.' Louisa began, matter-of-factly, 'Gaspard…he met with the Cardinal. He seemed the one most likely to buy the plans quickly…'

The musketeers did not miss the hesitation in the woman following the late Red Guard's name. Porthos grimaced at the prick of guilt in his stomach suddenly and sought something he might offer in way of apology or comfort. He could find no words that he considered worthwhile.

'And what were the conditions of your release?' Athos asked.

'He wanted me to bring the plans to him by this evening.' She paused a moment, taking in the shaking heads and fearful, somewhat angered expressions on the faces of Porthos and Athos, 'But I told him that was not possible, that I needed more time. So, he assigned me an escort of two Red Guard and instructed me to go and fetch them back for him.'

'I must advise against retrieving the plans for the Cardinal.' Athos responded.

'We don't know what he'll do once he has them, but I'm not sure I want to find out.' Added Porthos, 'Please reconsider...'

'For your safety and for the sake of Paris.'

Louisa shook her head, her heart suddenly sore as well as heavy, 'I had every intention of honouring my pact with Richelieu, but my first thoughts were of my release so I could make sure Gaspard was safe…'

She let her voice trail off, blinked away the moisture in her eyes and turned her gaze away from the musketeers so that they wouldn't see if any tears should fall. She heard her name, almost whispered with no small amount of empathy. The voice was Porthos' and it was accompanied by the sound of bare feet on floorboards as he approached in a gesture of consolation. Louisa turned, half lifting a hand to halt the advance, before continuing.

'But, now I see...there is only one way to proceed; the plans must be destroyed.'

'But what about you? And the child?' Porthos' gaze found Louisa's stomach involuntarily and the woman shifted beneath it.

'Nothing is worth all this…all this death.'

'So what will you do now?' the former Comte spoke, watching as the woman took a deep breath and gave a nod in resolve.

'I will make arrangements to destroy the plans.'

'I'll go with you.' Offered the larger musketeer.

'No. You'll stay here and forget that I ever brought any of this down on you.'

'Louisa…'

'Porthos, please. This is my responsibility…and mine alone.'

The musketeer in question narrowed his eyes and an uncomfortable silence hung heavy in the air around them. This was broken suddenly by a thought crossing Louisa's mind. She turned her attention to Athos.

'You said you had something to show me?'

And with an instructing nod from the former Comte de le Ferre, Porthos reached into a pocket and plucked out a tangled mass of leather cord and old gold. He watched Louisa's reaction attentively, his stomach lurching at the ill-concealed fervour as she took it from his palm.

'Where did you find this?'

'It was on Gaspard's body.'

Though both Musketeers trained their eyes on Louisa's face neither were able to easily read the woman's expression. Porthos thought he caught terror, sorrow, a note of anger. Athos was sure he saw thoughts of revenge behind her brow. But whatever thoughts had indeed crossed her mind at the revelation of this newest clue, she had no intention of revealing them. Instead, she slowly lifted the necklace, draped it around her neck and clasped a reverent fist around it. She pivoted, made for the door, was halted by fingers curling around her right wrist. She turned, took in the furrowed brow of Porthos.

'Where are you going?'

'I told you; to destroy the plans.' Louisa replied, her willpower faltering at the concern she recognised in the musketeer's dark orbs. She wanted his help, knew that was she was about to attempt would likely spell misery for her, but she knew she could not ask for it, could not risk Porthos' wellbeing or that of any other Musketeer.

'Not alone, you're not.'

She considered submitting, giving a nod and folding herself into Porthos' embrace, if only to shield her softening heart from the mounting terrors of the world outside. But something in her gut encased her heart in stone, chased away the self-pity and held her alone to account for the actions that had brought her to this moment.

Wrenching her wrist from Porthos' gentle grip, she narrowed her eyes and spoke with all the venom she could muster. Inwardly, she prayed it would be enough.

'I ask neither for your help nor your counsel, Porthos and I would thank you to leave me be…' She paused a moment, searching for what she might say that would halt him completely, that would see him stay in this room and not to follow. She found the words, held them sour on the tip of her tongue, strode for the door and turned to face the wood in the hope to hide the momentary grimace that pre-empted them.

'Besides, what good would you do? You couldn't even protect Gaspard.'

And with this, she swung open the portal and swept down the corridor. A door opened in her wake and the dishevelled figure of Aramis turned miscomprehending eyes in the direction of his two comrades, who now, both at the door frame, stared after the woman until she rounded a corner and vanished from their sight.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Froid.**

Jacques weaved deftly through the legs of merchants and patrons, crossing the market square with little difficulty. It was only mid-afternoon, but some of the vendors were packing away their wanting stalls at the behest of the gathering storm clouds above. Jacques felt himself start as a globule of rainwater landed cold and hard on the tip of his nose. It was accompanied by a feeling of sadness; he still didn't understand exactly what had happened to make his uncle return home in a hot temper. He had managed to pick up Elle's name, spat in indignation, but he was hastily ushered upstairs by his mother as she shrieked at the sight of blood on the hidden Musketeer's torso.

Jacques had obeyed the instruction, but spent the next half hour or so with his ear pressed to the floorboards, straining to hear the conversation below. It had ended abruptly with a spiteful remark from Etienne, the sound of smashing glass, some incomprehensible shouting and, finally, the slamming of the front door. He had crept downstairs then, only to find his mother sweeping up the remnants of a bottle, her demeanour quietened by the altercation. Little Jacques spent the next few hours trying to cheer her up and, though she acted as though nothing had happened, she occasionally forgot herself and he glimpsed her eyelids quiver with the weight of moisture or the corners of her mouth turn downwards.

Jacques had tried to ask about Etienne and whether anything had happened to Elle, but Genevieve had been in no mood to entertain such questions and, instead, she sent him out into the streets of Paris, insisting that he locate his uncle and bring him back in time for supper.

The route was a familiar one, the inn a favourite haunt for a troubled Etienne and Jacques knew the steps all too well; turn left out of the front door, follow the street to the end. Another left and then keep right, following la rue's natural curve and dodging patrons of the few stalls that took advantage of the regular footfall near the bakers and the butchers. After that, it was a case of traversing the alley a little way until the opening leading to the market square. Across the square lay the tavern, the rotund entrance set between two lanes which were often blocked by carousing customers. Today though - possibly owing to the earliness of the hour - the lanes were clear, but the bustle of activity within could still be clearly heard.

Setting his sights on the tavern, Jacques made for the establishment, powering his little legs forward and weaving through the bustling crowd. He was right in the centre of the square by the time he heard commotion erupt around him. Instinctively, his muscles stopped, his lungs held the breath he had been taking, his eyes flew to the cacophony of shouting voices and the whinnies of a startled horse. The black creature, muscular and youthfully energetic, hurtled across the square towards him.

Those members of the crowd with enough forethought to predict the following events, leapt out of the way. Though, in their selfish haste, not one gave a thought to the transfixed youngster now standing in the horse's path and very possibly too small to be seen by the rider.

Louisa heard the door opening as she passed it and she fought hard the urge to turn back. She had caught a glimpse of a face in her peripherals and her mind's eye had immediately summoned the image of Aramis, though she could not be certain. For a moment, images of her dagger crept into her consciousness and, for a second, she thought to turn.

Setting her brow, she continued forth, her gait determined, something she hoped would convince the musketeers of the conviction behind her stinging words. She had no time to turn back, it was probably even too late. And even if there was time, if she could guarantee that the Memento Mori was much less the death warrant it seemed, a dagger was not going to help her one bit against the foe she had now to face.

By the time she had reached the courtyard, her stomach had twisted itself into a sickening knot and her skull was buzzing with suppositions; she could go back and ask for Porthos' help _or_ she could go alone. She could ignore the necklace and the meaning behind it _or_ she could face her fears and hope she was in time to save yet another person whose life was only in danger because of her.

This last thought alone fortified Louisa's resolve. Too many people had already died for her selfish cowardice. This was her fight and hers alone.

And she had to finish it. One way or another.

There were voices to her left in the otherwise quiet courtyard and she turned her attention to them, being careful to flatten herself against a wall so as not to be seen. Her gaze fell upon the stables and a detail of two Musketeers simultaneously discussing their recent watch of the night and barking orders at the stable boy. They handed the reigns of their steeds to the lad and took their leave, heading across the square in search of sustenance.

Louisa narrowed her eyes, skirted the wall and appeared, much to the stable boy's surprise, behind the horse to his right. She outstretched a hand, gently smoothing the horse's silky black coat, offered the stable boy a smile. He reciprocated, adding a note of confusion to the expression. This was further amplified when the strange woman slipped the reigns deftly from his fingers, placed a foot in the stirrup, mounted the horse and spurred the creature out of the stables in a blur that left the poor lad reeling. He stood, open-mouthed and staring after the horse as it raced across the courtyard and through the garrison gate. He gathered his wherewithal only a few seconds later, but by the time he had shouted an alarm to anyone who might be around, the horse and its new rider had vanished from sight.

Louisa may as well have been blindfolded, her thoughts roiling like a fog behind her eyes. She could see only the harbour, the ship a foreboding silhouette against the blood blackened sunset. She knew where he would be and he knew that she would come. He had chosen his bait well, knew that she couldn't possibly resist it. The memento mori could only have belonged to one person and he, Capitaine Jean Perrault, knew only too well that she couldn't afford to let that one person die.

He had already taken so much from her; her dignity, her oldest friend, her hope, but this would be the final straw. It may have been some vague semblance of altruism that had seen Perrault keep him until last; the good doctor. After all, he was a man of great skill, a man who had patched him and his crew up time and time again. He had even put Louisa back together on many an occassion, making sure she was ready for the next time the Captain called on her.

Alternatively, Perrault might have figured it too much hassle to recruit another surgeon for the ship, only threatening him as a last resort, a last ditch attempt to get Elle back without having to follow her across all of France. He could be replaced, but Perrault would rather not expend the energy.

Scenes of the good doctor's fate writhed before her, clouding her vision in a haze of gushing blood and cracking bones. Would Perrault beat him like Purcell? Shoot him like Gaspard? Louisa hoped so, but was sure the surgeon's fate would be something much worse…

Something in her gut told her that the Captain would reserve his blackest cruelty for the doctor and not just for the fact he was an Englishman, but more for the times that he had warned him away, had given Louisa a few nights of rest, imploring Perrault that she would not survive without respite. Arguments helped by their location; months away from any land, the doctor picked his timings well.

She could picture him chiding her now, attempting to persuade her in his unusually accented French, imploring her to forget about him and save herself. She could hear the words, choice phrases.

_'Think of the child.' _

_'Forget about me. I will be content so long as you live.' _

_'For your sake…please…'_

She knew he would use them; he had done so before. The night he had helped her escape, led her to the long boat already bulging with supplies. He had laid his hands on her stomach and she had pleaded with him to accompany her. He had refused, saying that he would be needed here. Without him, her absence would be discovered too soon. She had climbed carefully into the tiny craft, looked back and told him that she would never forget him, that she would be forever grateful for his help.

_'Merci…merci et adieu, my doctor. My good doctor Grosvenor.' _

They had shared the saddest smile, a jot of humour at her pronunciation, the name sounding strange in her Parisian lilt, as it always had.

And then she had gone, had made her escape, fled to a future she hoped she could love and ignored the foolhardiness and the naiveté that said she could get away so easily, that said he would just let her go without quarrel. Ignoring the thoughts that burrowed deep, the ones that said her good Grosvenor, her kind and just Samuel would be left unscathed.

His screams. She could hear them now, a multitude in different pitches as Perrault dug and gouged and tore and scraped. At first they sounded as a man's scream would, with anger and defiance and then, when no other option presented itself and the attack was certain, a gravelly grunting, the sound short-lived, but ready to re-emerge through gritted teeth. Her ears then pricked at the irrational shrieking of women, cries of despair and sheer terror. Sounds that made her brow furrow. And then there was the strangest sound of all, the whimper and gasp of a child. She did not know how she heard it, but it jarred within her, dispelling her gory visions in an instant, bringing her back to the cobble streets and crooked houses, the air foul with city life, but all-at-once free from the coppery tinge of blood.

She wrenched on the horse's reigns, turned it sharply to the right, felt it overbalance and cry out in surprise as it hit the cobbles first with its flank and then with its shoulder. Louisa lost her grip on the reigns, was thrown a few feet away, managed to tuck her body in to a roll and come to halt on her left side.

She lay there a few moments, unmoving, listening to the chaos around her. There were reprimands spat in indignation, wondering how she could be so stupid. There were also expression of concern as she lay still, anonymous eyes running up and down her body, surveying her (much the same as she inwardly was) for any bleeding or breaks.

It seemed a long time before anyone touched her and as she became aware of a small hand on her shoulder, she in turn took in the whinnying of the horse and the clack of the shoes as it righted itself. She breathed a sigh of relief, rolled slightly and flattened her palms to the ground, fighting the urge to press a hand to her stomach. There was no aching, no bleeding that she could feel. Her side was sore from the impact, but for the moment she was certain there was nothing amiss.

Louisa instead, tilted her head sideways towards the hand. Miscomprehension threatened when she followed the arm to a familiar face; a face youthful, innocent and yet heartbreakingly full of worry.

'Elle?' came the boy's voice, tentative yet fretful, 'Elle? Are you okay?'

It took a moment for her to understand, her mind recalling the sound that had awoken her, shaken her from her terrible daydream. The startled cry of a child.

Louisa didn't feel herself push away from the ground, nor settle on her haunches, but she did feel the warmth of Jacques' little body pressing into hers, his thin arms around her neck. He was not crying, nor shaking, nor sniffling. He was simply concerned for her safety, brave beyond his years and not even dwelling on the fact that she might have ridden over him, that his tiny frame might have been trampled beneath her horse, only moments ago.

As these thoughts danced their nightmarish jig before her mind's eye, Louisa's arms encircled little Jacques and she could feel the beginnings of a sob crackle within her, her resolve waning, her body too tired to fight it.

The air around the pair suddenly seemed lighter as the crowd began to disperse. A few people grumbled disparaging remarks and others seemed loathe to leave the boy in the company of the woman who almost killed him not two minutes ago, but within moments, only a few onlookers remained.

Louisa took a breath, pushing Jacques gently away from her.

'Jacques, I am so sorry. Are you alright? My brave little musketeer, are you alright?'

Jacques treated her to a smile and a most fervent nod and, although the smile seemed tainted with a note of sadness, Louisa looked the boy up and down and satisfied herself that Jacques seemed none the worse for wear. The little boy's smile faded though as her gaze fell upon the horse, who although a little on edge seemed also to be unharmed.

'Where were you going?' He asked, 'Are you leaving Paris? Did the musketeers listen to you?'

Louisa stifled a laugh and furrowed her brow, wondering which question to answer first. In the end she gave a determined nod.

'I am leaving Paris. I have to. I was selfish, Jacques; I have placed so many people in danger…' Her voice trailed off and she looked away momentarily, unintentionally resting her gaze on the horse.

_'Including you…' _She added inwardly.

'You don't have to leave Paris. I was running to find my Uncle, you can come with me and maybe we can make him listen. If the other musketeers didn't believe you then maybe we can make him see. Come on!' Jacques stood, pulling at Louisa's left wrist excitedly, however, she could not ignore the slight vibrating of the little boy's voice, the slightest tremour that denoted sadness and betrayal.

Louisa remained still, gently resisting Jacques' attempt at getting her to follow. She gave a coaxing smile and slowly turned him to face her.

'Jacques. I have to go. The musketeers did listen to me, but I still can't stay in Paris. Trust me…I would if I could…'

Her thoughts wandered with this statement, this unbidden admission and she found herself questioning why she had said it. Why did she say it? Was it true? Would she stay if she could? Part of her doubted the truth of it; it was just a ploy, a tactic so as not to make a small boy cry. Of course it was. After all, she had nothing to keep her in the city any more. What with Gaspard dead and the fact she couldn't guarantee her safety or that of anyone else she met, it would be reckless to stay.

Jacques stared up at her, head tilted to the side, half-accepting this conclusion, but still wanting something more.

'Will you come back?'

'Yes, of course.' came Louisa's all too hasty reply.

The little boy furrowed his brow, crossed his arms defiantly, 'I don't believe you.'

A chill ran down Louisa's spine, but she could not say why. Perhaps it was the fact her ploy hadn't worked, that Jacques hadn't bought her promise. Or maybe it was the storm clouds quickening above them that had brought with them a sudden drop in temperature. Or perhaps it was the subconscious sense that she should be taking her leave, that there was no chance that the commotion she had caused would go unnoticed and that any moment now a troop of Red Guard or Musketeers would come to arrest her and return her to her Chatelet cell.

Looking into Jacques' now watery eyes, Louisa wracked her brain for something to say, something that would allow her to leave quickly to finish what she had started only a few nights ago, but most importantly, something that would not break this little boy's heart.

She thought on him a moment, the smallest musketeer, the boy who had known such sorrow and danger already in his short life. The boy who would grow up to be a great soldier and who would see things that she would never wish anyone to see. His fate seemed sealed in her eyes, his mind so full of stories and promises that he would never see. She knew the feeling. Hope. That which told you everything was going to be alright, that adventure awaited you at every turn and with it, the idea that you were invincible, that the world was a good and honest and just place and that, just as long as you believe such a thing, nothing would ever hurt you or the ones you loved.

Louisa swallowed back a lump in her throat, forced a smile and subconsciously closed a hand around the momento mori.

She allowed her smile to widen and slipped the trinket from around her neck. She placed it almost ceremoniously over Jacques' head and, no sooner had she rested it on his shoulders, did he take it in his tiny hand and study it with such intense awe as Louisa had never seen.

'Jacques,' she began, waiting for his gaze to turn to her before continuing, 'This is very, very dear to me. It was given to me by a man who saved my life on many an occasion, a very dear friend of mine. I want you to have it and look after it and keep it safe. Understand?'

Jacques gave a nod, 'What is it?'

'It's a promise. Understand? If I can…if I live through what I am about to do…I will come back to Paris. I will come back to Paris and come and find you to get that back, alright?'

There was a beat of hesitation as the words settled on little Jacques' brow. He understood the words, but didn't want to believe them. He couldn't think of any situation where Elle might not survive. But she believed it, that there was something she had to do, someplace she had to go where she might not make it back and, even though this scared him, Jacques was grateful that she had made that promise. That she had promised 'if'. Solemnly and honestly.

He finally uttered that he understood and that he would wait for her to come back. Louisa gave a nod, stood and approached the horse cautiously. The animal seemed to bear her little ill-will and let her mount with only the slightest hesitation. She afforded Jacques her most sincere smile and turned the horse round gently to leave the square. As she moved the creature out in a slow and cautious manner, ignoring the pointed stares from any lingering witnesses, her heart skipped a beat, taking in the familiar dishevelled form of the hidden musketeer.

With a breath, she halted the horse and fixed Levesque with not a scowl or a teasing smile, but merely a quiet querying and determined expression. She expected a tirade, a pair of hands wrenching her from her mount, a pellet in her belly, but nothing came.

She was about to spur the horse on when the musketeer cried for her to wait.

'Are you headed for Le Havre?' he asked simply.

Louisa eyed him suspiciously, her gaze momentarily shifting to Jacques before giving a nod in acquiesce.

'They know you're coming…they're waiting for you.'

Levesque's eyes locked with Louisa's and, to her surprise, they held nothing but a mere speck of the animosity they had once. She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to ask him how he would know such a thing, but the hidden musketeer seemed to have predicted her query, gave a shake of his head.

'Nevermind.' He took a breath, reached out for Jacques' hand and half turned to walk away, 'Bonne Chance, Louisa…and…I'm sorry.'

The apology took her aback and for moments she could do nothing but stare after Levesque as he led his nephew away towards their home. She didn't even take note of Jacques turning back and waving to her, calling out for her to remember her promise.

Eventually, her reverie was broken by a crash of thunder above her and the horse started slightly at the noise. Shaking her head, she led the horse out of the square and towards the city gates, but not before turning back and sparing Levesque a genuine and sincere, even if inaudible, 'Thank you.'


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Devoir.**

Jacques lay awake, listening to the steady and untroubled breathing of his mother in the bed beside him. He had wriggled out from under her affectionate arm in something of a protest and now lay in the chill air, his eyes trained on the shuttered window, a defiant yet thoughtful scowl etched into his brow.

The little boy did not know whether it was the beating of the rain against the shutters or the dull throbbing behind his eyes that prevented sleep, but if he had to guess, he would have said the latter.

His heart still felt sore about it; the fact that his mother had not believed him and his uncle had abandoned him.

Jacques raised his chin, gaze shifting to the hallway and the room opposite, where his uncle lay, his breathing too denoting slumber.

Bitterly, the boy recalled the scene (barely anything else had occupied his mind since).

Jacques and Etienne had returned home to the smell of boiling meat broth. Genevieve had been at the hearth, busying herself purposely with the cooking pot. The little boy had quite forgotten himself and had bounded merrily towards the woman at the fire, tugging at her skirts and brandishing the necklace proudly. He had only been half aware of his uncle latching the door behind them and striding wordlessly to the dresser, selecting a bottle, deftly uncorking it and bringing it to his lips.

'Mama! Mama! Mama! Look!' Jacques cried, wondering at his mother's apparent disinterest.

Eventually, she turned, ladle still in hand and an agitated, 'What is it, Jacques?' on her lips.

The little boy beamed and held the pendant up to her. It glistened in the fire light, but instead of summoning awe and pride to his mother's expression, her brow twisted into one of anger and suspicion.

'Wherever did you get this, Jacques?'

The boy did not answer, perplexed at the unexpected question.

'It looks expensive. Where did you get it?'

'Elle…Elle gave it to me.' Jacques stammered, watching as a darkness crossed Genevieve's countenance.

Genevieve shook her head, moisture suddenly at her eyes. 'Don't lie to me, Jacques.' she began again in a quieter, somewhat wounded tone, 'Did you steal it?'

'No, mama…' he breathed, tears too clouding his vision. He subconsciously clutched the precious object in his tiny hand, hoping that if his mother couldn't see it, her anger might disappear.

There was a beat of silence where his mother looked away, closing her eyes, taking a breath.

'Jacques Guillaume Martin! You will tell me where you got this necklace right this moment or you will be sent to bed without supper…And God help me if you have stolen it!'

Jacques shook his head and spoke again, self-pitying sobs punctuating his words, 'Mama! I didn–didn't steal it! I-I promise! Elle gave it to me! She said-said she was leaving P-Paris! Please! I-I didn't steal it!'

A sudden, desperate thought crossed his mind and he bid his gaze fall to the man who had since seated himself at the table, his own eyes fixed on the now half empty bottle.

'Oncle! Tell mama! I-I didn't steal it, did I?'

Genevieve's brow furrowed and she straightened somewhat, expectantly awaiting confirmation from her brother. When none came she pressed him, 'Etienne?'

The response was a shrug and the sound of another gulp taken from the bottle in his palm.

Finally, Etienne broke the fetid silence, 'Let the boy alone, Genevieve…'

Both the boy in question and his mother stared to Etienne incredulously as the sentence - spoken with a sigh and a note of distinct apathy - did nothing to satisfy either.

With a shake of her head, Genevieve gestured sharply to the doorway and the staircase beyond, 'To bed with you Jacques!'

The boy had tried to protest, imploring his uncle with watery eyes to help him and throwing his arms around his mother's waist in something of a desperate hug. These efforts appeared fruitless; Genevieve responded only by disentangling Jacques' arms from her waist and repeating her stern instruction.

Jacques, for wont of any other option had followed this damming command, but not without laying heavy feet on each step.

It seemed as if hours had passed when he finally heard the slow and weary steps of his mother and uncle ascending the stairs.

Jacques had slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, wishing his mother to believe him sleeping, punishing her with his silence. He had tried his best not to move as she readied herself for sleep and threaded an arm around him. Jacques steeled his heart at the action, choosing instead to focus on the sound of his uncle's boots finding the floor in the room opposite and the stinging grumble of his empty stomach.

He barely even felt his mother's tender kiss on his cheek, before she settled in to sleep.

It seemed to take a long while for both adults to drift into unconsciousness, but try as he might, Jacques could not quiet his mind; every time he closed his eyes the blackness summoned images of the horse, Elle and the necklace.

He thought back on her promise of 'if' and with the tiny, otherwise insignificant word, there came a buzzing, swarming blackness in his mind. At first, he had been happy, that she had used the word, happy that she would be coming back to him. He couldn't imagine what other outcome there could be. Grown ups were strong and smart and safe. Elle would surely come back to Paris. Wouldn't she?

After all, grown ups couldn't get hurt could they?

Jacques' heart suddenly ached in such a way that it made him forget about the ache of his empty stomach. A cold and dizzying melancholy wrapped itself around his small frame, a bitter reminder.

The little boy felt suddenly foolish at having forgotten what he did indeed know, what he had himself witnessed.

He held his breath against the memories; he knew they would come, it was too late to stop them, but he would try to stay the tears this time. He had to focus. If he allowed himself to cry, to sob, to feel, he would wake his mother and he would not be able to punish her then. She would ask him why he was crying and he would have to say it. One word. _His _word. The word that would belong only to _him_ for as long as there was breath in his little body. Jacques had vowed to keep that word sacred. It would suit no one else. No one else would compare. _Papa. _

Such a simple word, but so dark and sad. So heavy.

Jacques tried to remember happy memories, memories that might not hurt so much.

Like the time Papa had taken him riding beyond the city walls. They had left early in the morning as the sun was just rising and they had made their way over hills and through fields. It had been a special treat as Papa had not owned any horses, but he had borrowed one from a friend, someone he said he had been doing business with. Not that Jacques cared where the horse had come from; he had just been happy to spend the time with his father, beyond the city walls and beyond his work. They had ridden to a village, purchased fresh bread and milk and had whiled away a sunny afternoon, tucking into their acquisitions on the banks of a small river. It was a day bathed in laughter and golden light.

Jacques remembered that they had not returned until the sun had long since set and Mama had been cross at the sight of them. She had shouted and fretted and stripped Jacques of his mud-covered breeches and grass-stained shirt almost as soon as Papa had carried him into the house. Jacques had taken his bath in good humour that night, trying to explain to Mama - as she scrubbed him clean with the scratchy brush - how he had paddled barefoot in the cool water and had almost caught a fish with his bare hands.

Jacques screwed his eyes closed, trying to stop them itching and not quite understanding how this memory hurt more than the one where his father was in bed, barely able to open his eyes and crying out in pain at every touch.

_See?_ A voice inside his head chimed, unbidden, _Grown ups do get hurt!_

Taking a breath and setting his brow, Jacques moved his leg slowly and surely to the edge of the bed. He waited a few seconds with his foot hanging over the edge of the frame, listening for anything that suggested his mother had noticed. When there was nothing, he moved the other leg and hooked his fingertips along the wooden edge. He tensed his muscles, pulled himself carefully forwards so that the edge of the frame was digging into his side.

His mother still did not stir and he took a moment to angle his head, straining through the darkness to see if his uncle remained asleep. He heard the tell tale snoring from the opposite bed chamber.

Jacques steeled his resolve with a small nod, before moving forward still, until his bodyweight was conveyed over the bed frame. He dripped onto the wooden floor, wincing as the floorboards protested the sudden weight. He remained on his hands and knees for a few seconds more, before sitting back on his haunches and leaning back, outstretching a hand. He felt his breath still in his chest as he searched the darkness for his clothes. He felt at first for the end of the bed where he would usually hang them, neatly and obediently.

However, as soon as he felt only the deep grainy wood, he realised his mistake, turning his attention to the floor instead; he had not wanted to be obedient tonight. He wanted to be messy and angry and cruel and, as soon as he had realised that his mother was not going to call him back downstairs for supper, he had readied himself for bed in a temper, throwing his jacket to the corner of the room and abandoning his trousers in the doorway, half hoping that Mama would see them and know how upset she had made him.

Jacques swallowed a lump in his throat, wondering, as he gently patted the floor with a tentative hand, whether his mother had picked them up for him; he had not been watching when she and his uncle had come upstairs and he had quite forgotten to listen, his mind so full of pretending to sleep.

The little boy fought hard the urge to cry out in triumph as he balled the familiar fabric up in his left palm. Something in his mind told him it would be safer to crawl and he held the breeches close to his chest, edging his way to the door on three limbs, all the while listening for any signs that he was about to be caught.

The stairs were harder and Jacques had deliberate for as long as he dared about the best way to descend them. In the end, he had decided to stand, but keep close to the edge, leaning on the banister and keeping as much weight off the steps as possible so as to not make them creak.

When he reached the bottom step, he had allowed himself a small sigh of relief before pulling on his trousers and tucking his nightshirt into the them. He then slipped on an old pair of boots that had been left to gather dust by the front door. He looked up at the coat rack, squinting in the darkness, before reaching up, carefully tugging his heavy winter cloak from the hook.

Jacques then reached up for his hat, almost cursing when he found it gone. His brow furrowed, but then he remembered it's whereabouts. His gaze shifted to the top of the stairs, his heart sinking, imagining the hat still perched deftly beneath his uncle's bed. A clever decoy during his latest game of hide and seek.

He listened for a moment to the sound of the rain beating down outside.

_Not so clever now…_

The little boy felt the stinging of tears in his eyes. What could he do now? Elle was in danger and he had sabotaged his own chance at helping her. How could he have been so thoughtless, so childish? He was a musketeer. He should not be playing games.

How was he ever supposed to be a great musketeer like his uncle if he spent all his time playing silly games?

_Wait…_

The thought came like a glimmer of light and shifted his focus to the old chest, pushed into the space beneath the stairs.

Jacques all but leapt across the space, glad of the hard flagstone floor beneath his booted feet. He felt a smile cross his features as he reached the chest, knowing that it was never locked, but knowing what he would find within.

The lid was heavy, but opened silently, much to the boy's delight. He knew he had to be quick and tried his best to ignore his aching arm muscles whilst digging around with his free hand.

Before long, small fingers curled around a wide, leather brim. There was the slightest tickle of a feather on his nose as Jacques pulled the garment from the box, before cautiously closing the chest.

Clutching the stolen hat to his breast, Jacques crossed the space to the front door, twisting the iron key with baited breath and gingerly lifting the latch.

Jacques took a deep breath, screwed up his eyes, opened the door as much as he dared, squeezed his little body through the wanting gap and pulled the portal closed behind him.

He surveyed the sodden street with a mixture of disdain and apprehension. He shuddered at the hammering rain and howling wind. He made a move to clench his fists, before realising that his right hand wouldn't close, flattened against stiff leather though it was.

With a widening smile and a feeling of righteous duty brimming in his chest, Jacques lifted his hand, placing his uncle's hat (the hat of a true musketeer) atop his head.

He tried to lower his hand, but a gust of wind seemed to take a fancy to the garment and tried to lift it from his crown. Slapping his small palm hurriedly and defensively atop his head to stay the hat, Jacques, took his first step into the stormy night.

It was hard to remember the way he and his mother had walked the other day and Jacques realised, with a sinking feeling, that everything looked so much different in the dark and in the rain, but still he continued on.

He knew he could not turn back. He knew he had to at least try to help, to do what he could to make sure that Elle stayed alive.

The thought threatened that perhaps he was being selfish, that he had no right to offer help to Elle if she did not ask for it, just for the small chance that he would get to see her again.

_No. _

He chased the thought away, turning a corner and stopping in his tracks at what he saw.

_Grown ups can get hurt…_

He forced his legs into a run, the amber glow of lit torches warming his heart even though he was not yet close enough for them to warm his tiny frame.

Jacques called out to the men standing, one either side of the familiar archway. They turned their focus in unison, holding their torches out to see better. When he came close enough to see their features, he noted twin expressions of bewilderment, before one shifted a searching gaze behind Jacques and the other turned kindly eyes downwards, affecting a warm and comforting smile.

'I am here on urgent musketeer business.' Jacques began, raising his voice to be heard over the rain.

The man closest to him gave a dutiful nod and opened his mouth to speak. Jacques felt suddenly desperate and doubtful, a twinge in his stomach telling him that they wouldn't believe him and would merely send him away again.

'I need to speak with the musketeers named…'

Something cold and hard landed in the pit of his stomach as he wracked his brain for the names of the men he and his mother had spoken to the other day. When none came he shook his head.

'Well, I can't remember their names...but I have to speak with them at once.'

Jacques tried to inflect his words with as much authority as he could muster, wondering if the garrison guards would notice the slight uncertain tremor in his voice.

The musketeer who had been searching the darkness behind Jacques suddenly turned his focus to the small boy.

'Well, you won't be able to remember any names, stood out here in this!' He offered with a small chuckle, 'I think you'd best come and see Captain Treville. He'll know who you need to speak to.'

The musketeer then half turned, placing the hand that was not holding the torch between Jacques' shoulder blades. He spared his comrade a nod in parting before leading the boy across the courtyard and up the stairs to Treville's office and chambers, knocking hastily on the door.

Jacques could not help but feel some small semblance of success as an older man with piercing blue eyes and a commanding frown answered, giving a nod and gesturing that he enter.

_If grown ups can get hurt…_

Jacques thought to himself, allowing the musketeer and the man he took to be Captain Treville to take his sodden cloak and set a place for him before the fireplace.

_Then they must need help sometimes too… _


End file.
